


For You I'd Burn the Length and Breadth of Sky

by yumi_michiyo



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Compliant, Depression, Disabled Character, Drama, Explicit Language, F/F, F/M, Family, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Post-Canon, Romance, Slice of Life, Supernatural Elements, Unrequited Love, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-10-06 02:29:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 83,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10323557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yumi_michiyo/pseuds/yumi_michiyo
Summary: She already knows Quinn Fabray is more than just a pretty face; she just didn't know it would take a few lifetimes to find out how much more. Post-canon!AU divergence.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers up to the entirety of season 3, and then rides off into the sunset while cackling madly.
> 
> This is really 3 AUs bound up into one messy bundle, and it's still not done yet. Past tense indicates the present, and present tense the events of the AU (does that make sense?).
> 
> The title comes from [_My Medea_ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nzxUiCgTXVc)by Vienna Teng.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Mustique Island](http://www.mustique-island.com/about-mustique/the-island) is a real private island filled with the vacation homes of the rich and famous. Yes, the British royal family do own a home there; my sister scored herself an invitation to the island and attended one of Pippa Middleton's parties ~~while I live vicariously through her accounts and my fanfic~~.

The looking glass, so shiny and new  
How quickly the glamour fades  
I start spinning, slipping out of time  
Was that the wrong pill to take? (Raise it up)

You made a deal, and now it seems you have to offer up  
But will it ever be enough? (Raise it up, raise it up)  
It's not enough (Raise it up, raise it up)

I look around, but I can't find you (raise it up)  
If only I could see your face (raise it up)  
Instead of rushing towards the skyline (raise it up)  
I wish that I could just be brave

[**_Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up)_ ** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jzqRMZO9KZo) **\- Florence and the Machine**

* * *

She met the devil on a warm night after a day of – ironically – heavenly weather.

The sun had only just faded from the sky, leaving traces of orange-purple in its wake. It was a magnificent sunset, and Rachel had spent the entire time sitting in the hotel bar, her back to the windows, a drink in her hand.

(The ice had melted and the condensation long evaporated, but she had yet to take a sip.)

The barkeeper knew better than to pry, but when Rachel caught the man glancing in her direction for the third time in the last five minutes, she drained the glass in one long gulp.

By the time her empty glass returned to the table, there was a man seated two stools to her left that Rachel was certain wasn’t there ten minutes ago. Amber liquid glittered in the shot glass before him. Before she could tear her eyes away, he looked up and caught her gaze.

The man smiled. He raised his glass to her in a silent toast.

Rachel furrowed her brow in confusion. She scrutinized him for a few moments, trying to remember if she’d seen him somewhere, for him to be making a gesture like that. She might have been a well-known Broadway star and budding recording artist, but she’d also had her fair share of creepers, and fans with no concept of personal space.

He wore a tailored suit. Well-trimmed auburn hair, if a little flamboyant with a hint of sideburns. Green eyes glittering from either side of a long pointed nose.

A fox. He reminded her of a sleek, well-fed fox.

“It was a beautiful sunset, wasn’t it?” he said abruptly, startling her.

“If you’ve never seen one before, yes,” replied Rachel archly, and he chuckled.

“Yes. I believe you’re right. Would it be too presumptuous of me to say you’re the glass-half-empty kind of girl?” He nodded at her drink. “Or completely empty, as it seems.”

She felt a hot flash of anger lance through her belly. “It would.” Rachel got to her feet. “Good evening.”

 _Definitely a creeper_ , thought Rachel as she stalked back to her room.

* * *

Instead of spending the following night as she had spent the others, Rachel was invited to one of the many, many parties thrown by the holiday homeowners of Mustique. There had been more invitations but she had declined every single one. She’d come here to get away from it all, and attending glitzy social events was just another day of work for Rachel Berry; actress, singer, and Broadway superstar.

Tonight was an exception. Pippa Middleton herself, the hostess of this current bash, had come to request her attendance – or insist on it, in that charming British manner. “It’s not every day we have _Rachel Berry_ here with us,” she’d gushed over luncheon, and Rachel couldn't help but acquiesce. She’d plastered on her show smile and told Pippa she’d be delighted to attend, maybe even sing a song or two.

As it turned out, the British aristocracy weren’t any different when it came to throwing parties. She’d cranked out some of her hottest singles when prompted, and accepted the drinks, but Rachel wasn’t having fun. The crowd made her head pound and even the – admittedly good – music didn't do much for lifting her spirits.

(It’s been awhile since she was able to enjoy music.)

“Hi.”

This time, her unwanted companion was a woman . She was unusually tall, with legs that went on for miles, and long blonde hair in a too-fancy updo. The shape of her jaw reminded her of Brittany, but those eyes – no, not Brittany. Those eyes were hazel.

Quinn.

Rachel’s breath caught in her throat.

The woman laughed. “See something you like?”

“I – my apologies, that was rude of me,” said Rachel, tearing her eyes away. “You’re very attractive, and you reminded me of my – _friend_.”

“Thank you,” the woman purred. She sidled closer. Rachel did her best not to shudder. “It’s a bit noisy in here, and I’d really like to get to know you better. Shall we go elsewhere?”

“How… forward of you.”

“I don’t like wasting time.” She took a step forward. “Coming?” she asked over her shoulder.

Rachel felt compelled to agree, despite her better judgement. She followed the woman outside to the deck overlooking the beach. When they sat at the bench, Rachel noticed that her companion had somehow acquired two drinks along the way.

“You look like a martini girl,” she said, handing one of the drinks to Rachel, who accepted it with a smile. “Cheers. Here’s to forgetting.”

Rachel’s hand jerked, sloshing martini on her chair. “I’m sorry?”

The woman took a delicate sip and set it down. “I’ve been watching you since you arrived. You haven’t smiled once, and you haven’t budged from that corner of the bar until I came over. Someone hurt you really badly.”

“I apologise that I’m not good company,” said Rachel stiffly. “I… have a lot on my mind, which yes, I would be happy to forget.”

“What if I told you I could help with that?”

Rachel laughed sourly. “I’m sorry, but I don’t see how you could have any influence on my private life. I’m not interested in starting another relationship.”

“Wrong on both counts, Rachel Berry.” Her companion smiled. Her features seemed to blur and shift; in the next instant, Rachel is looking at the man from the afternoon. She dropped her glass in shock.

“So do I have your attention now?” His drink was now a whiskey, which he continued to sip. The shards of Rachel’s glass flew back together when he gestured at it with a free hand.

She stared at the now-unbroken glass. “This is a joke, is it? Some publicity stunt?” said Rachel weakly. “I must request your camera people use the most flattering shots of me.”

“Oh, I’m very real, Rachel. And right now I’m interested in helping you… _forget._ Apologies for taking this form, but we got off to a wrong start earlier, and I guessed this was the quickest way to get your attention.”

“I don’t understand why you are so fixated on my attention, but I must ask that you respect my privacy.” She stood up. “Good night.”

He stared. “You want to forget. I can help you.”

“I heard you the first time.”

“You didn’t seem like you did,” he said.

“I’m not about to jeopardise my career with drugs or what-have-you – ”

He burst into laughter, drowning out the rest of Rachel’s indignant tirade. “Ms Berry, I just shifted forms from a woman to a man, and I repaired your glass.” He pointed to it. “What makes you think I’m a mere _human_ with – _hallucinogenic drugs_ to peddle?”

“Human?” A chill ran down her spine.

“A lot more than that,” he said, examining his fingernails.

“You could be one of those street magicians,” Rachel said desperately, “Or I could be being pranked. Like how Ellen got someone to jump scare me...”

“You were married to Jesse St James but you never really loved him.”

"... What?”

“Your greatest fear isn’t of failure, but that someone will look through you and see nothing truly special there.” His lip curled. “Tell me, Rachel, when was the last time you truly felt the music that you perform night after night?”

She blanched.

“Sit.”

Rachel complied. “I suppose you’ve proved your point,” she muttered. “I am fully prepared to believe that you’re – _otherworldly._ Although it’s still hard to believe that Buffy and those TV shows got it right. What do you want from me?”

“Amusement, mostly. It’s sort of my thing.” He grinned when she glared at him. “It’s true. What could you offer me that I would want, or at least, not be able to obtain myself? Any help I offer would not be because I want something tangible in return.”

“Your terms?” Rachel asked. His playful act vanished, and he pushed aside his glass.

“I grant you three wishes. Anything you like, no holds barred. Money, power, fame. Immortality. All yours for the taking.”

“Sounds good. What’s the catch?”

He wrinkled his nose. “None of that ‘I wish for more wishes’ crap. I _will_ make your life miserable.” The man smiled, all unnaturally sharp teeth.

“And then what? You take my soul?”

“No, that’s a fucking cliche. No one takes souls anymore – not when they’re already offered up so easily.”

“Then what do you take?”

He smiled slowly, all teeth. “I’m not at liberty to disclose that.”

“I don’t see how you expect me to agree to a deal like that, considering so many of the important terms aren’t made known to me.”

“You're quite the shrewd businesswoman.”

Rachel smiled mirthlessly. “Years of contract negotiation and bickering over the fine print teaches you a few things.”

“But what I'm offering is worth the leap of faith, isn’t it?” As he spoke, he passed his open palm over the glass. It was full when he removed his hand. “And you’ve always been one to have faith, both in things and in people.”

Rachel fell silent. “Can you… turn back time?”

“Yes, but I wouldn’t advise that. You might not like the consequences. What I would do is open an alternate reality for you to… shall we say, follow the road not taken?”

“But I won’t forget that I made a wish? And I’ll remember what my life really is?”

“That’s right.” He waved expansively with his free hand. “Isn’t that great? An exit clause. Just perfect for people who enjoy running away, hmm?”

Rachel ignored that comment, gesturing to their surroundings. “How will I… come back here?”

“You die,” he said simply, laughing at her expression. “Think of it this way; if you choose to change your past, you get to live out the consequences, and you’ll come back to your real life. You won’t have died, not really, because that life wasn’t real to begin with. It would make a great experience for future roles.” The last sentence is said in a poor imitation of Rachel.

Her face darkened. “I’m not that person anymore.”

“As you say.” He drained his glass and set it aside. “So, what’ll it be, Rachel Berry? I’m very busy, and I haven’t the time to wait for your answer.”

“You seemed perfectly at leisure to pursue me in various forms.”

He seemed not to hear her, attention focused on his drink. “This offer has an expiry date.”

Rachel chewed on her lower lip. It was a deal with the devil – very literally, if she chose to let herself think about it – but it was so tempting. He was right; she wanted things so impossible only he could give them to her, and it came without long-term consequences.

Part of her wanted to wake up, alone and hungover, in her bed. The other part of her was very human, and very tempted.

“I’ll do it,” blurted Rachel.

He smiled and held out a hand. “Shall we shake on it?”

The moment Rachel took it, her hand felt both cold and warm at the same time.

“Done. What’s your first wish?”

The words tumbled off her tongue immediately. “I wish Quinn Fabray had never had that accident.”

 


	2. The First Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Further notes, meta, and commentary can be found on my Tumblr [here](http://yumi-michiyo.tumblr.com/post/158580931476/for-you-id-burn-the-length-and-breadth-of-sky).

“Rachel?”

She gasps, blinking as the giddy world around her slides back into focus. She’s wearing white, and the familiar faces surrounding her are youthful. Finn hovers beside her, handsome in his suit.

She’s seventeen, and she’s getting married to Finn.

“She’s panicking, she’s not going through with it,” she hears Mercedes mutter. Rachel gapes at them all, before flinging her arms around Finn’s neck.

He makes an ‘oof’ noise as his arms automatically wrap around her back. “Rachel? What’s wrong?” Finn grunts, gradually setting her back on her feet. “Hey. You’re upset. You okay?”

Rachel smiles and nods, hastily dabbing at her cheeks so as not to ruin her makeup. “I’m fine – really. I’m just excited.”

His face lights up at that. “Yeah, me too.” He squeezes her hand.

She realises something is not right.

“Where’s Quinn?”

“Right here, Berry,” says an amused voice. Rachel whirls around to see her standing in the doorway, that damned eyebrow cocked. Relief at seeing that pristine unbloodied pink dress floods Rachel, and she dashes forward, throwing her arms around Quinn’s neck.

(“Okay, what’s with all the hugging?” mutters Kurt. “She’s not changing her mind, is she?”)

“I'm so glad you’re here,” breathes Rachel. Quinn snorts.

“I said I’d support you.” She gently extricates herself from Rachel’s hug. “Why aren’t you married yet?”

Rachel doesn’t let go of Quinn’s hand. “I waited. I couldn’t – not without you.” Her gaze drops to the floor to hide the hot tears welling in her eyes. She’s aware of Quinn exchanging puzzled looks with the other people in the room, but she doesn’t care to look up. Rachel can't remember the last time she saw Quinn look at her with an expression other than contempt.

She knows that she should have a better grip on herself because her circumstances were different in the past – Finn is alive and right _there_ – but she hasn't seen Quinn in _so_ long. She’s missed this Quinn; carefree and smiling.

Rachel mentally corrects herself. Seventeen-year-old-Rachel Berry is in love with _Finn_. Finn is okay and _there_ , and she can stop wondering about how her life could have gone if he had lived.

 _Will_ go.

Quinn’s hand squeezes her own, bringing her back to her surroundings. “I’m not the one you’re marrying, silly,” says Quinn, “you didn’t have to wait. I mean – I’m going to watch my friend marry my ex-boyfriend. It’s not exactly the highlight of my year.”

She can’t help but grin when Quinn calls her her friend, but then the words sink in. “O-oh. It sounds weird when you phrase it in that manner.”

“Don't I know it,” says Quinn. She gently steers Rachel towards Finn, tugging down her veil. “Now get out there, Berry.”

Even as Finn takes Rachel’s right hand, her left catches Quinn’s. “You’ll be there beside me the whole time, right? You're not going anywhere?”

“Going anywhere? Where else would I go?” echoes Quinn. Out of the corner of her eye, Rachel can see Santana twirling her finger beside her head in that universal “she’s crazy” gesture. She pulls herself together.

“Sorry. I'm just nervous.” She grins. “I've never done this before.”

“None of us have,” quips Santana. They all ignore her.

* * *

She gets married. That’s what they’ve come here to do, and she feels giddy and excited and _invincible_. Quinn isn’t in a hospital bed, she has a ring on her finger, and New York is waiting for them.

* * *

While slow dancing with Finn, she sees Quinn and Puck together on the edge of the dance floor, swaying and talking in hushed voices. In her real life (though it becomes increasingly hard to think of it as such) she knows they’ll end up getting married but get a divorce some years later. Rachel doesn’t know if she wants that to happen in this reality, because it means that Quinn will –

“Hey. You okay?” asks Finn, his fingers on her chin, guiding her face back up at him.

Rachel smiles. “Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be? We’re married.”

He grins and stoops to kiss her. She melts into his familiar enveloping warmth, and pushes all thoughts of Quinn from her mind.

* * *

Much later that night, he panics when she starts sobbing and refuses to tell him why, only whispering, “I’m just so glad you’re here with me,” in response to his barrage of questions.

* * *

Being married, apparently, is a binding contract. Finn doesn’t dump her at the train station (thankfully); he’s right by her side as their friends see them off at the train station. The modest sum of  honeymoon money they’ve saved up goes towards the deposit on a tiny flat in Jersey, New York. Their landlady is a tiny woman with an unpronounceable last name (Rachel can’t help but be thrilled by this piece of stereotypical Big Apple living) who terrifies Finn for some reason. The wallpaper is peeling, the threadbare curtains don’t block out the light, and the mattress is lumpy, but it’s still home.

(She misses her Bushwick loft but she doesn’t say anything because Finn’s so excited about being in the big city with her.)

While Rachel is busy getting acquainted with her new city and her new life, Finn goes out looking for a job, telling anyone and everyone who will listen that his wife is going to be a Broadway star someday.

* * *

Finn finds a junior mechanic job in a garage a few blocks down the street. He refuses to even consider taking night classes at the community college; in fact, their first major argument is about Rachel’s conviction that a high school diploma won’t be enough for the rest of his working life, while Finn doesn’t care if he’ll ever touch another book again.

She has Puck’s experiences to draw from, but she can’t very well come out and say that.

“My classmate’s older brother enlisted in the Air Force right after high school and did very well initially, but he missed out on promotion to officer cadet school because he lacked higher education qualifications,” says Rachel. She leaves out the fact that Puck, frustrated with his dead-end non-commissioned officer path, quit. The last she heard from him, he was still toying with the idea of joining the police academy.

Finn frowns. “I’m not joining the Army or anything. I mean, I did think of doing that because of my dad, but it was just an idea.”

“That’s not the point. The point is that New York is very competitive with regards to employment, and you’ll need every advantage you can get to keep up. You’re not dumb, Finn; a college degree is definitely something you can attain.” She fixes him with a pout. “I’m sure you don’t want to be elbow-deep in car engines for the rest of your career?”

“I can always work my way up. I’ll save up enough to start my own garage, like Burt.”

“This isn’t Lima, Finn. Space is expensive.”

“I know, Rach.” He sighs, motions for her to come closer, and slings his arm around her shoulders when she sits beside him. “I just wanna enjoy this break from school. I can always enrol next year, yeah? I’ve got plenty of time.”

Rachel opens her mouth to protest but then thinks better of it, seeing his eager expression. She really shouldn’t be indulging him, especially now she’s Mrs Finn Hudson and they have the rest of their lives here together. But it won’t kill him to slack off for one night, and she’s missed him so much.

Rachel hasn’t yet gotten used to seeing Finn, alive and well.

“Next year,” she mumbles, trying and failing to keep the smile from her face when he grins at her.

* * *

 Cassandra July is a breeze in this reality, after Rachel’s dealt with her the first time around. She’s pleased to find that she’s retained all her skills and experience; combined with her decade-younger body? Rachel rockets to the top of the class, and all Crazy Cassie July can do is purse her lips and say, “Acceptable, Schwimmer”.

(In her real life, she’s become something of a beauty icon, big Jewish nose and all, and Rachel can’t wait to rub _that_ into Cassie’s classically beautiful blondeness.)

Acing her dance class isn’t the only thing Rachel does; she excels in all of her classes (which makes sense, considering she’s already taken them), and she has an uncanny knack for predicting test questions. And the Winter Showcase? She was the first freshman to win the first time around, so she’s pretty confident about that.

The rest of her life isn’t as smooth-sailing. Rachel gets her part-time waitressing job at the Spotlight Diner - though she misses Kurt and Santana - to earn her share of the rent.

Finn is less than thrilled when she tells him.

“Honestly, Finn, it’s not such a big deal,” she says, watching him pace up and down their tiny living room. “My dads pay for my college tuition, so my salary really only goes towards our daily expenses. Yours is more than adequate for our rent. We’re saving up for the future.”

“Yeah, but… I should be taking care of us while you focus on your classes.” He pauses. “I mean, that’s why your dads didn’t let you work while we were in high school.”

She blushes. “They take things a little too seriously sometimes.”

“You do too. You’re, like, the most focused person I know.” Finn takes the chair next to her, shoving his hands in the pockets of his overalls. “Look, Rach, I know we’re not really fighting, but I don’t like it that we’re arguing a whole lot these days. I’m not telling you to quit, but the minute your grades start to slip, I want you to quit, okay?” The focused expression slips a little. “Was… that too much? I didn’t mean to make it sound that harsh. I’m just worried about you – like, this is your big dream, y’know? I don’t want anything getting in the way.”

Rachel sighs. “No, Finn. That was fine. I get what you’re saying.” She rests her hand on his knee. “I promise, the instant work starts to affect my grades, I’ll quit.”

He beams at her. “Okay,” says Finn, leaning in to peck her cheek. “I’m glad we could compromise.”

* * *

The last she heard from Quinn, the blonde was busy finalising her paperwork and dorm at Yale. She’s determined to keep in touch, and so she calls her friend. The Metro pass sits, out of its envelope, in front of her.

Quinn picks up on the fourth ring, sounding a bit breathless. “Hello?”

“Hi, Quinn. Is this a bad time? I apologise, I didn’t think to text you to check if you were free to talk. I can always call again later…”

“Hello, Rachel,” responds Quinn dryly. “No, it’s fine. I was just shifting the last of my things into my dorm.”

On cue, Rachel can hear shuffling and thumping noises, and Spanish curses in the background. She giggles. “I can hear Santana in the background. She’s helping you move?”

“Very reluctantly.” Quinn says something away from the mouthpiece of the phone, and Santana responds with a muffled, “Love you too, bitch”. “How’s New York?”

“It’s great. Wonderful.” She struggles to summarise her experience so far into mere words over the telephone. “I can’t believe I’m finally here, and it’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of, and more.”

Quinn chuckles. “Good to hear. And Finn? Is he enjoying it?”

“I believe so. He’s gotten a job at an auto garage not far from our flat, and he’s thinking of enrolling in community college next year.” Rachel sticks to plain facts when describing her husband. “He’s been very supportive so far.”

“That’s great.”

“Yeah.”

Rachel blushes hotly at the silence that follows. She knows it isn’t really Quinn’s fault, Quinn is busy with moving, but surely she can find something more to say to the girl she hasn’t spoken to in two weeks. “I was thinking… my winter break is coming up, and I have a week off school. Maybe I could… you know, visit you? If you haven’t got any other plans, that is.”

“It feels strange, being on my own in New York,” continues Rachel quietly. “I know I’m not really alone – I have Finn – but it’s not quite the same without you and Tina and Kurt and everyone. The people I met in NYADA are all so talented and crazy about Broadway and performing and – they have more in common with me than you guys, but I miss you guys more. Is that weird?”

“... I’m sorry Rachel – Santana dropped a box of stuff down the stairs,” interjects Quinn. “Were you saying something? Come again?”

Rachel colours. “I – no, nothing important. I was… just talking about school.”

“I see. Sorry I didn't catch that.”

“It's fine, nothing important. Guess I’ll… talk to you another time? When you’re less busy?”

“I’d love that.”

* * *

Quickly, the bane of her life becomes her home life with Finn. It’s a bit unfair, considering she’s actually twenty-nine years old (emotionally and physically, for the first time in _her_ life) and he’s an eighteen-year-old teenager away from home for the first time in _his_ life, but… in the span of seven months, Finn has managed to find her last nerve and trample on it.

Granted, he’s not completely useless; Carole was a single mother, and Finn knows how to cook basic meals and do household chores. He’s just… not very pro-active. Rachel takes a while to settle on the word after coming home from a long shift to find the apartment a mess; laundry hamper overflowing, dirty dishes in the sink, and her husband sitting on the couch with a goofy grin. The image reminds her of a naughty puppy, and she bites down on her lower lip to swallow a laugh.

She’s supposed to be mad. They have a rule that whoever gets home first starts the chores, but nothing’s been done, the house is in a mess, and she’s exhausted after a long day of classes.

“Hey, babe.” Finn kisses her briefly. “How was your day?”

“The house looks like a bomb hit it.”

He deflates a little. “Yeah. I’ll get to it later. But I got you a surprise!” Instantly, he’s cheerful again, pulling a bouquet of flowers from behind his back. They’re a little squashed, and that pink larkspur has no business being _there_ , but it’s so uniquely _Finn_ that Rachel can’t bring herself to be upset. “Us too, actually, but mostly it’s for you.” Finn nods at the box of gleaming silverware on their tiny kitchen table.

Rachel’s mouth falls open. “How did you – we can’t afford this.”

“Sure we can. We’ll just not have takeout for the next two weeks.” Finn’s expression starts to waver. “Don’t you like it?”

“I do – of _course_ – but we can’t be spending money this freely.” She’s thinking of the shiny new game console machine tucked under their battered television set. “We have a budget, Finn, and we need to stick to it.”

He purses his lips, clearly thinking of the same thing. “But you said you wanted this.”

“I did, but – we’re practically adults now. We’re paying rent and we have jobs. We can't spend money on things we don't need.” Rachel fixes him with a glare. “Especially since we’re saving up so _you_ can go to community college next year. We agreed on that, remember? I know Burt and Carole promised to help out, but college won’t be cheap, and I don’t think you want to drain their savings.”

Finn shoves his hands into his pockets, looking abashed. “I know, but – we have a pair each of forks and spoons, Rach. We _definitely_ need cutlery. I’m sorry I wasn’t really thinking about being practical and stuff, but… I was on my lunch break, and I saw the cutlery set on sale. Then I was heading back and this girl on the street was selling flowers, and they reminded me of you.”

Rachel had stopped being mad at him approximately fifteen minutes ago, but this is the final straw. She completely melts. Anyone would have done the same, unless their heart was made of stone. Rachel tugs on his shirt, comically, asking him to bend down so she can kiss him. “Thank you, Finn.”

“You’re welcome,” he says happily, resting his hands on her waist. “Do you wanna cook tonight, try out the new stuff?”

“It’s just cutlery.”

“Yeah, but it’s _new_. Have you ever used new cutlery? I mean, it’s just _there_.” Finn frees up a hand to gesticulate around him.

She pushes at his shoulders, giggling helplessly.

* * *

When that dreaded date rolls around, a hysterical Rachel insists Finn take a sick day with her. They stay in bed the entire day, Rachel’s ear pressed to his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat.

He doesn’t understand, of course, but he doesn’t say anything.

* * *

It’s been one of those days when everything is a mess and nothing seems to go right. Finn’s been difficult, Cassandra July more so, her classmates want to kill her, and even the barista at her usual coffee spot got her order wrong. Rachel swears under her breath when her phone rings and she nearly drops her textbook into the mud when she tries to pull the phone out of her jacket pocket. “Rachel Berry speaking.”

“Hello, Rachel Berry. This is Quinn Fabray speaking.”

Rachel laughs – the first genuine laugh since she woke up. “Hi, Quinn. Sorry about that, it’s been one of _those_ days.”

“Ah. No explanation needed. I hope things’ll start to look up for you.”

“They already are,” says Rachel honestly. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?”

“Well, Yale starts its winter break two weeks from now.”

“Mmhmm.” It overlaps with NYADA’s break by about five days; Rachel will never admit to checking Yale’s academic calendar and marking term dates in her planner.

“I was wondering if you have plans to go back to Lima for your break?”

“No. Finn doesn’t feel like going anywhere, and we couldn’t afford it anyway,” explains Rachel. It was one of the points of contention in their recent falling-out; Rachel wants to see her fathers and Mr. Schuester, Finn has been taking longer shifts at the garage after one of the mechanics left and is just dying for an uninterrupted day in bed.

The money isn’t an issue – her fathers had offered to sponsor their plane tickets – but she’s supposed to be a married woman. She doesn’t want to rely on them, especially when she knows they’ll be divorcing in a few years’ time.

“I see. Well, in that case, do you mind if I impose on you guys?”

“Quinn Fabray, are you asking me if you can visit New York?”

“Only if you’re able to put me up. I’m a starving college student too, I don’t think I can afford most of New York’s hotels.”

Rachel squeals.

* * *

Most of the planning and travel arrangements happen over Skype.

“You know, I would really like to see New Haven someday,” says Rachel.

“Maybe later. You have that pass, but Finn doesn’t, and it’s not fair to make him buy his own ticket to New Haven,” she explains. “You guys should save your money for yourselves.”

Rachel rolls her eyes. “If by ourselves, you mean the latest limited edition game system, then yes.”

“Trouble in paradise already?”

“No, but… Finn can be such a big kid sometimes. Without Burt and Carole – and even Kurt – around, he’s making up for lost time buying all the things he didn’t have, and eating everything that’s bad for him.” She bites back a comment on how even _Santana_ was more responsible than that. While Finn’s certainly improved over time, he hasn’t completely cut back on his spending, and it’s lost its charm.

Quinn chuckles. “Sounds the same as high school.”

“Yes, but we’re not in high school anymore. He doesn’t seem to understand that we have rent, and living expenses, and I’m still in college, despite the fact we’ve talked about it so many times. We can’t just spend our money on things we want but don’t really need.”

“Rach, we both know Finn’s not the best listener at times, and you talk so much, people tend to tune you out.”

Rachel squeaks indignantly and Quinn laughs, making apologetic gestures with her hands.

“Maybe you’ve been talking at him, not to him. Why don’t you try again? You guys are married. You’ve got to sort things out.”

Rachel blew out her bangs. “You’re right. Yale really made you smarter.”

“Naturally,” Quinn laughs. “And I’ve left Rachel Berry speechless. Miracles _do_ happen.” The grainy image on Rachel’s laptop shifts. “Or, if you don't feel like talking, you could always perform an appropriate mashup…”

“You're ridiculous.”

“I learned from you.”

* * *

Puck doesn't enlist in the Air Force in this world, but Quinn’s presence in his life keeps him grounded anyway. He manages to earn a diploma in business management from Lima Community (with her support) and gets a job in a landscaping firm, with big plans of working his way up.

Quinn plans on never returning to Lima, and Puck’s okay with that; he has a life plan (Rachel laughs in astonishment when she hears before clapping a hand over her mouth. “Don't apologise,” says Quinn, “I did the exact same thing the first time I heard.”) to earn capital and experience in his current position, and then set up his own firm wherever Quinn chooses to live.

If it bothers her that Puck is shaping his life around Quinn, Rachel doesn’t say it.

* * *

Quinn asks to Skype on Sunday evening instead of their usual phone call. Rachel camps online, waiting for the little icon beside Quinn’s name to flash green.

The first thing she sees is a sparkle.

“Puck proposed,” she says, happiness in her smile and bursting from every inch of her being. The ring on her finger continues to sparkle. “I said yes.”

An instinctive “Congratulations” spills from Rachel before she can fully process it. Puck appears in her laptop screen, waving at the camera.

“Hey, Jewbabe. Oh shit, I'm not allowed to say that anymore, am I?”

Quinn, laughingly smacking at him, confirms the fact for him, and then accepts the apology one-armed hug and kiss on the cheek. Rachel watches all this with warring emotions.

“Hi, Puck. Congratulations, you guys.”

“Where’s Finn?” Puck peers at the screen, treating Rachel to a very unflattering closeup (“Stop scaring Rachel, you ass!”).

“Working late at the garage. I’ll get him to call you later when he’s back.”

Puck suddenly disappears from the frame. “Go,” laughs Quinn (who appears to have pushed him), “you've said your bit. Let me have my conversation with Rachel in peace.”

“Fine. I know when I'm not wanted.” He kisses Quinn and waves at the camera.

“I'm so happy for you and Puck,” says Rachel.

“Thanks, Rachel. It means a lot to me.”

“What, my approval?”

“Of course,” smiles Quinn, “you’re my best friend.”

Rachel laughs, her stomach flip-flopping. “When did that happen?”

“I think we’ve bonded over the shared trauma of college and man-children.”

* * *

Rachel has been counting down the days until Quinn’s visit; even the news of the engagement hasn’t deterred her. She practically pounces on Quinn the minute the blonde arrives at Grand Central and takes charge of the entire visit, taking poor Quinn on a Rachel Berry-style tour of her city (with emphasis on her personal favourite destinations and landmarks).

Finn joins them for dinners, and gamely volunteers to sleep on the couch so Quinn can have a proper bed for her back.

(Rachel had campaigned hard for it, completely forgetting the accident never happened until she saw the confused expressions on their face. She’d backpedalled, making up some excuse about chronic back pain, which thankfully they accepted, probably thinking of it as typical Rachel Berry diva-ness.)

The first night, Rachel lies awake, contemplating the curve of Quinn’s back. She’s been confused about her friendship with Quinn of late, and her best friend’s recent engagement has only made it worse. Objectively, she’s happy that Quinn and Puck are happy together. They’re good for each other after doing some growing up (Puck more than Quinn), and they clearly love each other.

But Rachel’s not happy, not really. She doesn’t know why the thought of Quinn marrying Puck upsets her so much. She feels anger, then guilt for feeling angry, every time Quinn mentions Puck.

She knows she feels nothing for Puck but friendship (and perhaps kinship over their shared Jewish heritage). She didn’t bat an eyelash when she heard that Puck dated _Kitty Wilde_ , for goodness’ sake; even though she found the age difference more than a little inappropriate.

Rachel decides she’s just being overprotective of her friend. The accident never happened here, but she can’t help feeling guilty that it nearly did. Plus, Puck and Quinn ended up getting divorced in her reality, and she can’t bear the thought of her friends suffering.

* * *

Rachel remembers being eighteen and feeling invincible. She was a particularly insulated teenager, and ignorant of the harsh realities of the world, which people like Cassandra July were more than happy to introduce her to. In this lifetime, she spots the cracks of a crumbling marriage thanks to experience with her adult friends.

Finn isn't really the type to do confrontations; Rachel would compare him to a balloon. He prefers to let it build up until he reaches his breaking point; she sets him off, they have a fight, he airs everything that's been bothering him until he’s spent and mollified, and perfectly pleasant again.

Until she finds something to nitpick in something he’s done. To her, it’s perfectly justified; dishes left unwashed in the sink, dirty laundry strewn on the floor, overdue utility bills that he promised to pay days ago. To him, chores can get done eventually, and she’s getting way too upset over the small stuff.

But lately he’s been more distant than she’s known him to be; more prone to agitation, less willing to humour her or laugh things off.

After she told him off for not telling her he had a late shift at the garage (she’d cooked dinner and it went cold, all her calls to him went unanswered because he doesn’t carry his phone while he’s working), Finn went into a sulk.

They haven't spoken for a week, even though they're currently in Lima in Rachel’s fathers’ house, due to attend Quinn and Puck’s wedding that afternoon.

Rachel knocks on the door of the guest room. “Finn? I know we’re not talking at the moment, but at least will you let me check your attire?”

He lets her in, expression stormy, and goes to stand stiffly in the middle of the room like a tailor’s mannequin. She’s learned to ignore him when he gets like this, and fusses over his tie, straightening it and smoothing the wrinkles out of the fabric. “There,” she says, tweaking at his collar and giving him a weak smile, “looking dashing as always.”

Finn smiles back a little, but it’s gone after a moment. When she tries to leave, he catches her hand.

“Rach,” he says, “we need to talk.”

Rachel senses that she knows what he’s about to say, but she arranges her expression into a mildly quizzical one. “What is it, Finn? We’re running late as it is.”

“I don’t think we’re working.”

“What?”

“I’m moving back home. I-I don’t belong in New York, but you do.”

She knows it’s coming, but it hits her like a punch anyway. “Finn Hudson, are you leaving me?”

“Rach…”

“It – it really figures. You’ve always had horrible timing. First you break up with Quinn at a funeral, then you kiss me onstage _at Regionals_ , and you tell me we’re done, _now_ ? We’re about to attend our best friends’ _wedding_. Do you know how ironic that is?”

He looks abashed. “We can’t go on like this anymore; you’re never home, and all I do is work. When we’re together, we fight. It sucks.”

“So that’s your solution? Break up? This isn’t high school, Finn; you can’t just break up and get together again when it suits you.” She’s fuming. This is the height of his immaturity. “We’re _married_.”

Finn sighs. “I know.” He sits down heavily on the bed. “I’ve tried to make it work. Believe me. I love you so much, Rachel, and I hate that it’s hard to remember that, these days… I just want us to be happy.” He holds out a hand; reluctantly, she takes it, and lets him pull her down to sit beside him. “I know my job’s hard on you, and that I agreed to college, but I don’t want to stay in New York.”

Rachel’s expected as much. “Okay,” she says calmly.

“I’m sorry. I’ve tried my best to fit in, but it’s too big and noisy and crowded, and I really miss home. But I know you belong in New York, on Broadway – on stage, singing. That’s your thing. My thing’ll always be you, Rach. I love you, but I’m not happy in New York.” Finn rubs a hand over his face. “Remember when we talked about anything getting in the way of your dream? Even if – that was me, I’d still – yeah. I know how important it is to you.”

She catches his chin, tugging on it until he looks at her. “So we won’t stay in New York then.”

“What?”

Rachel shrugs. “It’s fine, Finn. I’ve always suspected you wouldn’t be happy in New York – it’s my dream, not yours – and I’m willing to do anything to make our marriage work. I love you too, Finn, and you’re more important to me than a dream.” She bites down on her lower lip. “I used to live for my dream, but I’ve learned that dreams are empty without someone to share them with, so…”

His mouth falls open. “Rachel, you don’t have to – ”

“We’re really late,” she interrupts him. “We’ll talk more later, okay?”

“Rachel…”

She hurries out of the room.

* * *

Quinn and Puck’s wedding isn’t the wonderful occasion Rachel’s own was (in her past life) but it’s definitely less rushed than hers and Finn’s in this life. Puck says his ‘I do’s in a crisp tuxedo, Quinn is beautiful in a flowing white gown Rachel remembers from the bridal shop as being too long for her.

When the couple are at the altar saying their vows, Rachel sneaks a glance at Finn. He sees her looking, and grins that endearingly lopsided grin, even if it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

She takes a deep, steadying breath and focuses on Quinn.

She’s made her choice.

* * *

Rachel returns to New York with Finn immediately after the wedding, but only to pack up their things. They sell their tiny Jersey place and manage to buy a comfortable home in the suburbs of east Lima with the money. She stays on a little longer to finish up her last year at NYADA and applies to Ohio State for her teaching diploma while Finn makes their new house a home.

While Finn takes over as the head mechanic at Burt’s garage, Rachel has no trouble finding employment as a choir teacher at McKinley High, and assistant Glee club coach. She has a degree from a very prestigious performing arts school, after all.

(If Will Schuester is a little disappointed to see her as a colleague, he hides it well, enthusiastically welcoming her back to McKinley.)

It’s… nice, actually. Things haven’t changed very much from when she was a student, but she refuses to turn a blind eye to the bullying like the teachers used to do. Rachel quickly earns a reputation for being the tiny teacher who makes gigantic football players cringe, and of course – the slushies become a thing of the past, mere rumours spread by nervous freshmen.

Finn starts to spend his free time hanging around school with her and Mr Schue. The experience makes him want to be a teacher himself, and he finally enrolls in community college for his teaching degree – a little late, to be sure, but not too late. It makes Rachel happy to see Finn with a goal and direction, and the way he lights up at the dinner table as he tells her about his classes and schoolwork.

Every second Tuesday of the month, they have dinner with the Schuesters. Thursday nights are date nights at either the bowling alley or watching whatever new film’s out at the theatre downtown – usually an action movie, because Finn tends to fall asleep in anything too slow. Saturday dinners are with Burt and Carole, Sundays with her fathers. The rest of the week is spent sitting together at home, Rachel grading homework and Finn poring over his own.

It’s all so domestic. Finn’s overjoyed. Rachel… much less so.

She doesn’t hate her job. She loves teaching people to sing and watching them grow (and now she doesn’t get told off for telling students that they’re pitchy).

Rachel can feel the disappointment coming off the people who watched her grow up. Will Schuester. Her fathers (who _didn’t_ get divorced; she theorizes that it’s the shock of their little girl giving up Broadway that makes them put their personal issues aside). Even Burt and Carole. Her friends (when they find the time to talk) often express their incredulity that _Rachel Berry_ , out of all of them, stayed on in Lima.

(She’s starting to understand why Quinn fought so hard to leave that Stepford wife future behind.)

In this life, Kurt never had a place to stay while he figured out what he wanted in life, but he managed to make it to New York through his fashion blog. “You’re making a mistake,” he tells her bluntly through the background noise of the party he’s attending. “I love you and Finn, but you shouldn’t be doing this to yourself.”

“Kurt, don’t start.”

“It has to be said. Listen to me, Rachel. It’s killing you inside. I know you love teaching, but it’s not your true passion. What happened to the Rachel Berry who annoyed us all to insanity with her Broadway dreams?”

“She found a new dream,” says Rachel brusquely. “A marriage takes work. I’ve made my choices, and I’m happy with my life as it is.”

Kurt makes a snorting sound. “Okay. You sound totally genuine, by the way. It’s good to hear you’ve maintained your acting skills from NYADA.”

She says her perfunctory goodbyes and hangs up. Finn will be home soon, and she should reheat dinner so it’ll be ready by the time he gets back.

* * *

Much to Rachel’s shock, Quinn decides to come back to Lima after a few years spent working in Chicago. She accepts a position as a town historian in City Hall while Puck works on his landscaping business by day, and takes business courses at the local community college by night.

“I never thought you’d be coming back, not after everything that’s happened.”

Quinn fixes her with a watered-down version of her Head Bitch in Charge look, mingled with pity (Rachel’s become intimately familiar with that look). “I could say the same for you.”

Rachel looks away first. “Quinn, please don’t.”

Her friend heaves a sigh, and then stiltedly asks about McKinley and Will Schuester.

* * *

In a twist of fate, Rachel has to abandon New Directions at their Sectionals because Quinn is in labour (they win anyway, beating out the latest iteration of Vocal Adrenaline, and she’s overjoyed to have righted that particular gripe). Puck calls her, half-frantic with worry (even though it's his second child) after Judy Fabray, and she burns rubber rushing to Lima General.

She’s right there in the delivery room holding Quinn’s hand as she gives birth, and Rachel gets to be the third one to hold the baby (after the parents, of course).

“She’s beautiful,” says Rachel, choked up by the baby in her arms.

“We’re gonna call her Amanda Rachel,” says Puck, still covered in mud after having abandoned a job to come, and big Rachel lets out a gasp. “We’d be honoured if you would be her godmother.” Quinn, looking drawn and tired, manages a wide smile.

“I – of course,” she whispers, tears filling her eyes. “Thank you.”

* * *

“I think we should have a kid,” says Finn one night, after dinner at Quinn and Puck’s.

She props herself up on her elbow. Rachel was waiting for him to bring it up, after watching him play with the baby the whole night. “Finn,” she says patiently, “We’re both full-time teachers. Babies are a lot of work. Who’s going to care for it while we’re at school?”

“Don’t patronise me,” he says, hurt; she feels an instant stab of guilt. “Quinn and Puck both work too. There’s maternity and even paternity leave now; and then after that, there’re daycare centres and stuff. Anyway, you know our parents would never let us put kids in daycare; we live ten minutes from Burt and my mom, fifteen from your dads. You know they’d insist on looking after the baby.”

Rachel presses a kiss to his cheek. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Finn relents, pulling her closer. “Anyway, it’s not like I want one right now. I’d just like to think about it more – it’s about time, yeah? Things are more settled now, we’ve been married for years.”

“And you’ve finally learned to pick up after yourself,” teases Rachel.

He groans. “Yeah, and that.” Finn playfully rubs his stubbly cheek against hers, making Rachel squeal and giggle, and a tickle war erupts.

“So, yeah,” he says after they’ve calmed down. “I’ve been thinking of a kid of our own for a while now, because I was worried.”

“Worried?”

“I barely knew my dad, just from the stuff he left behind, and the stories Mom told. Puck’s had problems with his dad. I got Burt now, but I see the way he and Kurt are, and it’s not exactly the same, you know? I want to be a good dad to any kid of mine, and it took me awhile to get to that place where I know I’ve learned enough not to screw things up.”

Rachel cups his cheek and kisses him. “Okay, Finn.”

“Okay, you’re gonna think about it?”

“No. Okay.”

He stares, incredulous, before a grin spreads across his face – before, just as quickly, it vanishes. “Rachel.”

“What?”

“What about New York?”

Rachel freezes. “ _What_?”

Finn stares back at her. It hits her then that he’s gotten older; there are laugh lines at the corner of his eyes that she’s never noticed before. She’s never seen him _older_ before, and it scares her. “I know you chose me over your career, Rachel, and that means a lot to me. I know we haven’t really talked about it, and I’m sorry if it seemed like I didn’t care, but it’s still your dream.”

“Finn...”

He shakes his head. “You’re not happy. I’ve been watching you try and find other things to make you happy, but nothing comes close to the happiness you get when you’re onstage, performing for everyone like the star you were born to be.”

She shakes her head; slowly at first, and then faster. “Finn, no. I – ”

“I’m not doubting that you love me. I love you. I love you so much, because you’re willing to do all this for me, that you’re giving up your happiness for mine.”

“Finn Hudson, I didn’t agree to a baby for the reasons you’re suggesting,” she says sharply. He winces.

“I know. Okay, that came out wrong.” He runs his hands through his already impossible hair. “I’m just saying… maybe we should give New York another shot. We’re still young, we’ve got savings, I’m not as dumb about a household like I used to be…”

Rachel rolls her eyes.

“... but yeah. I think we could make it.” Finn looks straight at her. “We’re way more mature than we used to be. Maybe we got married a little too young, but we made it work, and we’re gonna make it work for the rest of our lives.”

Rachel has to laugh. If she had ever doubted this was a dream, she’s certain that this is a reality that could have been… real. Even now, he’s still Finn, and he can’t help being the noble and big-hearted idiot that he is. “We’re moving to New York?”

“Isn’t that where Broadway is?” He shrugs. “It didn’t work out the first time around, so we’re trying again. And if it doesn’t work out, well, we know we gave it a shot, yeah? Besides, I’m sure we’ll be able to raise kids here in Lima or in New York.” Finn leans forward, kisses her forehead. “Hey. Rach. I need you to look at me, okay?”

She does.

“We need to do this,” he repeats, firmer. “I need us to do this. You gave up a huge piece of yourself for me, but now you have a chance to get it back. And we’ll do it together.”

“Alright,” says Rachel with a little hiccough. “Alright.”

* * *

Move back to New York. Work part time in a cafe or restaurant, somewhere with flexible hours, so she can attend auditions, while Finn teaches at one of the public schools. They’d saved enough between their jobs to live without worrying about money like they used to.

That was the plan. They’d made arrangements on their house, bookmarked a couple of flats in Williamsburg, Finn’s filed his transfer paperwork, until Rachel spends one morning, and the next, throwing up in the bathroom.

Her heart sinks.

* * *

“I’m pregnant.”

Finn’s jaw drops. “You’re sure?”

“Completely.” A smile tugs at the corner of her lips. “Yes, you’re the father for real.”

He shakes his head, hands coming up to rest on top of his hair. “I – yeah, of course. I – wow.” Finn drops onto the couch. “I’m going to be a dad.” He stares at her midsection.

“Yeah.” Rachel perches on the side of the couch and kisses his cheek.

“But… New York?”

It’s her turn to shake her head. “I guess it wasn’t meant to be.”

“Rach…”

“It was a dream.” Rachel takes his hand, places it on her still-flat belly. “This is real.”

He swallows hard. His fingers tremble slightly. “Yeah.”

* * *

She thinks this is how her fathers must have felt (and Will, back when he was coaching their Glee club, and now that he has kids of his own); all her own dreams and hopes fade, eclipsed by the ones she has for the baby in her belly.

Rachel genuinely doesn’t harbour dreams of Broadway for herself, anymore. Her attention and efforts are focused on her pregnancy; under her direction, the spare room turns into a nursery with star-patterned wallpaper that she and Finn spent an entire Sunday afternoon putting up. They were both covered in wallpaper paste at the end, but they both agreed the result was well worth it.

* * *

“Don’t you miss it?”

Rachel’s exhausted after a long and intense session of playing house with Mandy (she was the modern bread-winning woman and it wasn’t easy keeping her trophy wife happy). She misses the question completely until Quinn repeats it. “Miss what?”

“Performing.”

Rachel decides to deflect the question. “Are you kidding? I don’t miss competing for roles, or the long hours in rehearsal. In any case, my cast members couldn’t keep up with me.”

Quinn shoots her a long, penetrating look. “But you miss singing onstage.”

“I have plenty of opportunities to sing at school.”

“But you don’t perform anymore.”

Rachel sighs. “Quinn, get to the point, please.”

Her friend is silent for a long moment. “I know you love Finn, but it’s hard to believe you’re happy, giving up your career like that. Performing is your life.”

“Was my life,” Rachel corrects her. “I have other responsibilities now.” Her hand cups the gentle curve of her belly.

* * *

She bursts into tears after her daughter is born, after everyone has left the ward (including Finn, who’s gone to call their other friends with the news). Rachel’s so drained.

“I’m sorry,” she sobs to no one in particular.

* * *

Her daughter Eleanor (after Eleanor Parker, the choice of which Finn only approved of because he was completely distracted by new fatherhood) is a year older than Quinn’s son, and two years younger than Mandy. Their parents are best friends, so it makes sense that the three children would grow up together.

“Eleanor’s turning one soon, isn’t she?” comments Quinn.

“Yeah,” says Rachel happily. Across the living room from them, the girls play contentedly in the playpen. Jordan naps in the crib at Quinn’s elbow. “Time flies.”

Quinn glances at her sideways. “You’re not returning to work?”

Rachel bites on her lip. “I don’t want to leave her at a daycare centre. They’re incredibly impersonal, and it’s not guaranteed they will be able to give each child the appropriate amount of attention he or she needs.”

“Berry,” says Quinn in a severe voice that still never fails to send a shiver down Rachel’s spine. “I’ve known you long enough to see you’re not telling me something.”

“You always see right through me. This is why I can’t tell you about surprise birthday parties.” Rachel tries a smile.

Quinn simply arches an eyebrow and waits.

Rachel sighs. “I’m not planning on going back.”

“Rachel.”

“Hear me out first, okay? Finn was recently promoted, and with the increase in his salary, there’s no real need for me to return to my work. We’ve talked about it, how we were raised, and though we love our parents, my dads were always working and Carole was working two jobs to support herself and Finn. I’ll be staying at home to take care of Eleanor.”

Quinn continues to stare.

“... what?”

“Again, there’s something you’re still not telling me.” Quinn looks away. “Never mind, it’s fine.”

Rachel places her hand on Quinn’s knee. “Quinn…”

“It’s fine.”

“I… I can’t go back and watch them sing.”

Quinn stills.

“You were right, okay? You were right. Before, about performing being my life. I miss singing for myself and singing for an audience. I love teaching, but I – I’ve seen the way Will used to watch us sing. It’s not quite the same.”

When Quinn says her name again, she’s suddenly aware of the tears welling up in her eyes, and the tightness in her throat. Rachel leans forward and lets Quinn hold her.

* * *

It was cathartic, pouring out her deeply-buried feelings to Quinn. She goes about her day feeling lighter, more free somehow, even though outwardly nothing’s changed. She makes breakfast for her family, says goodbye to Finn and Eleanor. She takes a handful of voice students for private coaching, and that fills up her afternoon. Finn picks Eleanor up from preschool and they arrive home in time for dinner.

This was how her life would have progressed if things hadn’t changed so drastically.

* * *

Quinn and Puck have been hitting rough patches in their marriage over the past few years. It’s just part of who they are. Most of the time it’s just squabbling which gets resolved when one of the two (usually Puck) caves. Finn takes Puck out to the bar, and Quinn goes to Rachel’s house after particularly nasty fights.

They’re both incredibly stubborn and determined people who have difficulty opening up, so that’s to be expected.

Until the night Quinn shows up on the doorstep with a duffel bag and two kids (so terribly reminiscent of their high school days). “I left him,” says Quinn, and bursts into tears.

Rachel doesn't know what to say. Part of her – the part from her reality – still wants to hold on to Quinn and never let go. But the rest of her has been married to Finn Hudson for close to ten years. “You’re always welcome here,” she says, taking a sleepy Jordan from his mother’s arms and leading them to the guest room, telling a groggy Finn to go back to bed.

* * *

They're not getting a divorce.

“It’s not fair to Mandy and Jordan,” explains Quinn. Her face darkens. “Puck and I are quite firm on that. We don't want them growing up in a broken family like we did.”

“But what about you? Are you two going to be okay?”

Quinn shrugs helplessly. “We’ll make do. It’s not like I'm not used to keeping up appearances.” And she looks so lost that Rachel’s heart breaks.

* * *

“So,” says Finn casually over breakfast one morning, “I think Elly’s old enough.”

“For?” She’s a little nervous, in case he’s going to suggest horseback riding or karate or other activities she thinks aren’t completely age-appropriate for her six-year-old daughter.

“For us to move to New York,” he says in a casual tone that he normally uses for suggesting spontaneous trips to the mall or out for ice cream.

Rachel spits out her coffee.

* * *

Quinn laughs for five long minutes when Rachel tells her, during their weekly coffee dates. “That sounds like classic Finn; yet to learn the difference between being romantic and being insane.”

“I know, right?” groans Rachel. “It’s wonderful that he’s so serious about this, but – we’ve got to find a place, and get Elly’s transfer paperwork sorted out, and Finn’s job… it’s madness.”

“Admit it, you’re charmed.”

Rachel blushes. “... I am. I’m still quite the sucker for grand romantic gestures, it seems.”

Quinn smiles fondly. “So… you’re really going.”

“We are, but whether it works out or not…”

“Oh, come on. You’re Rachel Berry. Where’s that fire gone?” Quinn nudges her with an elbow. “Do you want me to slushie you? Would that jog your memory?”

Rachel rolls her eyes, having known Quinn long enough not to be offended by the reminder of their high school days. “I will kill you for even thinking of ruining my last good coat. I think I liked you better when you were bitchy and angry at everything. At least I wouldn’t have to suffer through your attempts at humour.”

“Attempts at humour? Rude.” Quinn jabs at her arm. “So, when are you moving?”

“We’re planning to settle everything by next August, just in time for the new school year.”

“That’s just over a year’s time.”

“Yeah.”

Quinn pays the bill over Rachel’s vociferous protests, and then says quietly: “The kids are going to miss you guys.”

Rachel chews on her lower lip. This is the part she’s dreading the most; she and Finn have grown to love Mandy and Jordan like their own, and she knows the children will be devastated by the move. She’s uprooting her entire family to chase her dreams.

“Hey.” Quinn nudges her. “You still have this nasty habit of thinking too loud, you know.”

“So what am I thinking about?”

“You shouldn’t beat yourself up about putting Finn and Elly’s lives on hold to pursue your dreams. Finn’s completely supportive, and Elly adores you. You’re Rachel Berry, and you’ve never compromised when it comes to making things happen.”

“Uncanny.” Rachel smiles briefly, and then her face falls as a thought crosses her mind. “But… what if it doesn’t work out? What if it’s too late?”

“Seriously? You’re doubting whether you have the talent and determination to make it on Broadway? Who are you again? If I can make it to Yale,” Quinn waves at herself, “you can worm your way into starring in a musical in a few months. I can see you as Fanny Brice already; you’ll send us all tickets for your show and we’ll brag about how we knew you back in high school.”

Tears are welling up in Rachel’s eyes. She brushes them away, beaming. “You’re ridiculous, Quinn Fabray. But thank you.”

“Always happy to provide that swift kick of reality, Berry, because I know you’d do the same for me.”

 _Reality,_ thinks Rachel, _how ironic._

* * *

New York is brutal, and they aren’t that young anymore. Eleanor gets bullied in school, and Finn has to start from the bottom of the hierarchy in his new inner-city public school; his wins in football and Glee don’t count for much here.

Rachel tries, but besides holding her family together, she has auditions to attend. There’re no good news there either, and as the rejections pile up, she finds herself having less and less energy to deal.

* * *

“It isn’t working,” says Finn one evening heavily.

“Finn…”

“It’s not you,” he preempts her, holding up a hand. “I know what you’re gonna say, Rach, and we both know that you’re working yourself to the bone keeping us together.” Finn cradles her cheek with a hand. “You’ve lost weight.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

“What, am I not allowed to decide that for myself?”

He throws up his hands in exasperation. “See – this is exactly what I mean by not fine. We’re – we argue way too much, and it’s like when we were kids. Nothing’s changed, except we have a kid who cries herself to sleep while we’re yelling at each other.”

Rachel stills. She remembers the one and only fight her fathers had when she was six, and how they promised never to scare her like that after they found her hiding in her closet. “Oh god. I didn’t… I’ve been so selfish.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“You always say that. Then whose fault is it?”

“It’s no one’s fault. Things happen.”

“I’m not one of your kids.”

Finn scowls. “You shouldn’t talk like them, then.” His expression quickly shifts back to neutrality, and he takes a few deep breaths. “Okay. We’re not getting anywhere like this. We just – we gonna take a time out, both of us, and we’re gonna come back and have this discussion again. Okay?”

Rachel can’t help the small smile that creeps across her face. “You’re in your teacher mode. It’s adorable.”

He grins, lopsided. “Habit. It took me a couple of years, but it’s way more effective than kicking chairs.”

“You know what, I’m calm now.” She drops her hands to her side. “Let’s talk.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t… what do you need me to do, Finn?”

“Nothing,” he says gently. “You’ve done everything you could. It’s time we gave up and went home.”

It takes a while to sink in. “You’re saying we should go back to Lima?”

He takes a sheaf of paper out of his briefcase. “I’ve already filled out my transfer papers. I called Will the other day, he said he’s looking forward to hiring me again.” Finn pauses. “He said your spot coaching Glee’s still open, if you want it.”

“... what?” Rachel stares at the papers in his hand. In all their years of being together, she’s never known him to be this industrious. “Finn, you… why didn't you tell me?”

He looks abashed. “You looked like you had plenty to be dealing with.”

She pushes away the hand he tried to put around her shoulders. “And so you didn't bother with telling me that we’re going back to Lima? How could you? Did you tell Elly?”

His embarrassed silence tells her everything she needs to know. “It’s kinda obvious, isn't it? That we’d go home if it didn't work out, like we did before? And I'm sure she’d be okay with moving,” says Finn eventually. “She’d be happy to be living near her grandparents, and Quinn and the kids again.” Finn tries to touch her again; she lets him squeeze her arm. “Babe, we’ve got a kid to think about now. We need to consider what’s best for her too.”

“But Elly’s doing fine. She’s made some friends, and her grades are improving. She’s never said anything to me.” She knows it sounds like a lame excuse, like she barely knows her own daughter. Rachel feels guilty for even saying it.

“She misses home, and Quinn and Puck, and their kids. She cries herself to sleep when she thinks we can’t hear. She thinks she’s the reason we’re fighting.”

Rachel looks away, biting on her lower lip, tears welling in her eyes. She’s become the mother she promised she’d never be, and it eats at her that she’s letting Eleanor down. Finn misinterprets the gesture.

“Rachel, it’s not Elly’s fault.”

“What?”

“Don't blame her for this.”

Rachel opens and closes her mouth a few times, incredulous. “Finn, you – please tell me you didn't just accuse me of resenting my own daughter.”

“Okay, whoa,” says Finn, holding up both hands. “Accuse is a pretty strong word.”

“It is, and that's why I know you didn't just say it to me.” She’s shaking a little from the force of her anger. “How could you?”

“I didn't say that. All I said was that you shouldn't put the blame for our problems on Elly.”

“By saying _that_ , Finn, you're basically saying that I blame her for this.” She takes a deep breath. “That I blame the both of you.”

“Rachel, can you stop making this more dramatic than it needs to be? I – god,” he grunts, lifting his hands to his head, and then letting them drop to his sides. “You just – ”

“I just _what_ , Finn?”

“Just – don't.” Finn makes a frustrated noise. “I can't talk to you right now. I'm going out. You said you were calm.”

She resists the urge to yell after him, going straight to Eleanor’s room as the front door slams shut. “Baby,” she says, “Elly, are you awake?”

The lump in the bedclothes sniffles a little.

“Oh, sweetie.” She hugs her daughter tightly. “I'm so sorry. It’s not your fault, okay? You've been so brave, and your Daddy and I love you so much. We’re not mad at you.”

* * *

Quinn know her well enough that when she calls, Quinn answers the phone with a, “Rachel, what happened? Are you okay?”

Her throat works, and she says in a voice that sounds too raw to be hers: “Finn left.”

“What? Rachel, I'm so sorry.”

“It wasn't working out – he’s been struggling at work, and Elly’s been having problems fitting in, I'm never around for them – ”

“Berry, stop,” orders Quinn. “It’s not your fault.”

She chuckles weakly. “– and i haven't gotten a single part. Not even for standing and swaying in the background. I've lost my husband and I've got nothing to show for it.”

“If you're going to be this pathetic, I'm putting down the phone. This isn't the Rachel I know. Do one of your breathing exercises now,” Quinn commands.

She does. Quinn hums approvingly. “Feel better?”

“Yes.”

“Alright. I'm flying out there this Friday night, I’ll text you the details later.”

“Wait a minute. Quinn, what did you say?”

“I'm coming to visit.”

“But the kids…?”

“It’s Puck’s weekend to take them. I’ll talk to him, he’ll be fine with taking them for an additional day or so.”

“You don't have to…”

“Yes, I do,” says Quinn firmly. “After all you've done for me, over the years, believe me when I say that this is the least I can do.”

* * *

The soonest she can, she arranges to meet Eleanor from school instead of having her stay back in the after school program. “Hi, sweetie,” she says, smiling bright. “Did you have a good day today?”

Eleanor stares. “How come you're here?”

Rachel doesn't let her smile falter. “I thought that I could take you out for ice cream, as a special treat.”

“Okay.” Her daughter follows her down the street. There is a old-fashioned ice cream parlour she frequented in her reality (after she was forced to become vegetarian for economical purposes, Rachel rediscovered dairy and never looked back) where they still hand-cranked their ice cream and painstakingly assembled sundaes. She smiles when Eleanor’s eyes go wide at the sight of the place.

“What do you want, honey?”

“A banana split, please.”

Rachel orders herself a strawberry milkshake. As the waitress walks away, she studies her daughter; the prim and proper way Eleanor holds herself, like a miniature adult, reminds Rachel of herself. Being the child of two gay men meant that she spent very little time with children her own age.

She has her mother’s expressive brown eyes, but the pouting lips are Finn’s, as is the messy light brown hair.

“How was school today?”

“Okay, I guess.” She pokes a spoon into her ice cream and stirs. “We learned addition today. Brandon ate a bug.”  

Rachel blinks. “Oh-kay. Brandon sits next to you in homeroom, doesn't he?”

“Yep,” answers Eleanor, popping the ‘p’, a habit she surely learned from Finn. “He did it for a quarter.”

“I see.” Honestly, she doesn't. Rachel finds herself at a loss. This girl – her daughter _–_ is practically a stranger. A miniature adult at that, from the way she holds herself, to the careful speech she seems to have learned from her mother. But she’s not someone to be daunted by a challenge.

“Elly sweetheart, you're a big girl now; so Mommy's going to treat you like one.” Rachel takes a deep breath.

“Is it about where babies come from? ‘Cause I already know that. Daddy said the stork brings them. He leaves girls on the doorstep and he dumps boys down chimneys, that's why they're so dumb,” says Eleanor very matter-of-factly.

All the wind leaves Rachel’s sails, and she makes a mental note to speak to Finn about parenting methods (amusing as they are). “No, sweetie. It’s not about babies. It’s about us.”

The corners of Eleanor’s mouth turn down. “Are you and Daddy getting a divorce?”

Well, clearly their daughter takes after her more when it comes to perceptiveness. “We’re not, baby. Your daddy and I just… need to spend some time apart. You see, your daddy doesn't like living in New York because there are people who are mean to him at work. And I… I want to keep living here because when I was your age, I had a dream of being a singer on Broadway. Your daddy and I moved here to help me try and reach my dream, but it was too hard for him.”

Eleanor nods, but Rachel can see she’s lost her, and so she clear her throat and winds down. “We love you very much, and our living apart doesn't mean Daddy doesn't want you around. And I promise i’ll be around more.”

“Okay.” Eleanor spoons the rest of her melted ice cream slurry into her mouth. “Can I have another wafer, please?”

“Sure, sweetheart.”

* * *

“Auntie Quinn!”

Quinn’s face lights up. “Hi, sweetie.” She sweeps the little girl up in her arms. “You're getting too big for me to lift.”

“Am not,” giggles Eleanor.

“You are. Soon you’ll be lifting me. I'm looking forward to that.” She moves into the house to let Mandy and Jordan in. The kids squeal at the sight of each other.

Rachel blinks. “I thought…” she starts, absently letting herself be tackled in a bear hug by both kids.

Quinn smiles. “I thought, and Puck agreed, the impromptu holiday would be good for them. He chipped in for the air tickets.”

“Thank you,” says Rachel. Her voice catches on the lump in her throat.

* * *

Rachel never wanted the day to end. She’s missed Quinn so much, and Mandy and Jordan are practically hers. It’s been awhile since she’s seen Eleanor so happy.

Quinn comes back to the kitchen. Exhaustion is written into every line of her face, and yet she’s smiling fondly. “Well, the little monsters have finally passed out,” she announces. “That gives us some time to catch our breath.”

Rachel giggles. “You brought this upon us all by bringing your share of the monsters.”

Her friend playfully swats at her with the dishtowel as she goes about making herself coffee – the third cup of the day, though nobody’s counting at this juncture. “Here,” says Quinn, passing Rachel a steaming mug.

She inhales the aroma of coffee, moaning appreciatively. “I love you,” says Rachel, “but I love you more,” she directs at the mug.

“Nice to know I'm appreciated.”

Rachel just laughs. “You are,” she says earnestly. “Quinn, I really am so happy that you're here.”

“Don't need to get mushy on me, Berry,” responded Quinn with a roll of her eyes – it’s fond, not sarcastic, she can totally tell now. “I've only just persuaded Jordan out of his clingy phase.”

“Seriously, thank you. You've never… you knew that Finn and my moving back here was a bad idea, didn't you?”

“... what are you talking about, Rachel?”

“You knew. You didn't say anything. Not that it’s a bad thing,” she adds, seeing the expression on Quinn’s face, “but you – you've always supported me in everything i chose to do, and it means a lot to me.”

Quinn tries to smile. “Let's be completely honest with ourselves, Rachel. If I were to tell you you were making a mistake by moving back to New York with Finn, you’d be hurt that I wasn't more supportive of you and him, tell me I didn't know Finn as well as you did, and move anyway. Correct me if I'm wrong.”

Rachel blushes. She’s absolutely spot-on, and they both know it.

“You're not the type of person to take things at face value – I say this in the nicest way possible – and I get that. Of course I had hoped that things had worked out for the best. No one wishes to be proved right in this sort of bullshit. But I wanted to be there for you when you need me, and not before.” Quinn takes a deep breath. “Did that make sense?”

She smiles crookedly at Quinn. “It did. I think you're better at this friendship than I am.”

The blush starts slow but gradually creeps up Quinn’s neck because she’s so fair. “That was completely unrelated to what we’ve been talking about.”

“No, it’s completely related,” insists Rachel. “I am so blessed to have you as my friend.”

Quinn just shakes her head, but she can see the quiet happiness in her eyes.

* * *

She isn't that young anymore – she’s turning 32 the next year, but that's ancient by Broadway’s standards – and she isn't exactly established in the industry. Rachel doesn’t have lists of bit parts and ensemble roles to explain away the years of absence, and puts up with more than the usual snark from casting directors.

But Rachel finds some of that determination and grit she used to possess in spades, and gets to work. When she’s not meeting Eleanor from school or having dinner with her daughter, she’s signing up for workshops and auditions, talks from famous performers, and attending networking parties. She’s up at the crack of dawn, she doesn’t stop moving the entire day, and she’s collapsing back into bed way past midnight.

And despite her exhaustion, each day seems to be brighter, like taking steps out from the dark. Finn was right; she’d lost a huge part of herself, and every day she’s in New York, she’s finding it again. She rediscovers food she used to love but stopped eating for reasons she can't remember. She wears clothes that have languished in her closet for years.

She still loves him, but she can't be with him and his small town dreams; not anymore.

* * *

Finn brings up a divorce while he’s visiting them. Rachel nearly chokes on her food.

“Finn, are you serious? We haven't been living together for a while now, and you want a divorce?”

“Yeah, that was kinda my point,” he says sheepishly. “You should be free to date other people, you know?”

“Finn, I’m –”

“You're not in love with me, anymore.” Her mouth opens and closes soundlessly. He doesn't look upset or angry, just… resigned. “You haven't been for a while now.”

“What are you talking about? Why would you say that?” Slowly, her anger builds momentum. “Is this because I wouldn't go back to Lima?”

“It’s not good for Elly, growing up in a broken family,” he says, a muscle tensing in his jaw. It makes Rachel feel the tiniest bit guilty, because he grew up in a single-parent household, and he’s dealt with more than his fair share of issues. “And you've moved back before. I don't get why you can't do that again.”

“I don't – I'm not sure what you want me to say. It’s complicated.” It’s a point of contention that has rankled at Rachel for years now; why was she so willing to give in before, and why can't she give in now – especially now, when they have a child in the equation? She loves him; that has never been in question.

It’s not like she hasn't chosen him over herself before.

Finn clenches his fists. “What, you think I'm too stupid to get it?”

His outburst is completely out of the blue – she would have expected it from teenage Finn, years earlier – and so she rears back, startled. “Finn, you know that's not it.”

“Then why? Why won't you come home?”

“You know that's not my home anymore.”

“... so you see why I have to think you don't love me anymore?” He rubs at his face. “It’s the only thing that makes sense.” Finn pushes away from the kitchen table, paces around. “Is it someone else?”

“My god, Finn, you're being completely ridiculous.”

“One of the guys from work?”

“Finn.”

“Or Puck?” He spits out his best friend’s name.

“Stop it!”

He glares at her, chest heaving.

“Get out.”

Finn does, kicking over his chair as he goes.

* * *

“He _what_?”

Rachel blushes and repeats the last part of her story. Quinn frowns. “We’re turning 33 next year and he’s still acting like that?”

“He was angry – I said some things that pissed him off.”

“And _you_ ,” Quinn directs her ire at Rachel, “you're still making excuses for him. Just when I thought you’d gotten back the spine to come fight for your dreams again, you do this bullshit.”

Rachel swallows her retort. She feels small and insignificant, much like she spent a lot of her freshman year of high school feeling. In the same masochistic vein, it warms her heart that this formidable personality is directed for her benefit now. “Sorry.”

Quinn loses steam. “Rachel,” she starts, with an awkward little smile, “don't do that. It’s not – ”

“ – my fault, I know. You're just a little intimidating when you have that expression on your face. Old habits die hard.”

“Don't I know it, Berry,” comes the dry retort. “We’re still not doing this friends thing very well, aren't we?”

Rachel laughs. “Honestly, I wouldn't have you any other way. I – really, thank you, Quinn. For everything. You're my best friend, and you've always been there for me.”

“So have you.” It’s the closest she’s heard Quinn come to referencing their high school years. “And I don't understand why you need to bring this up whenever we have a conversation slightly deeper than whatever our kids are doing. I like to think I'm past the age for needing affirmations that I'm a good person.”

“Don't flatter yourself,” she snorts.

* * *

It occurs to her that Quinn has always supported every facet of herself uncompromisingly. Finn had done the same – she would by lying to claim otherwise – but of late his support has come with conditions, with “but”s attached.

She’s lost him, regardless, and she only realises this when Finn calls her to apologise sheepishly for his behaviour. As he is ending the call with questions about the arrangements for Eleanor’s summer holidays, Rachel asks about Quinn and the kids.

“Oh,” he says, and laughs, an awkward ‘ha-ha-ha’ that she immediately identifies as the laugh that means he’s not telling her something – usually when it has something to do with Quinn (a habit she discovered from high school). “She’s fine.”

“Finn.”

“No, really. We had coffee the other day, and we talked. She said some stuff about us, and, you know, the kids.” She can picture him shrugging. “She didn't chew me out, if that's what you're thinking.”

“She did,” says Rachel, and sighs.

“Uh, you won't tell her I told you, right?”

“No, Finn. It’s scientifically proven that you can't be held liable for anything extracted from you inadvertently or otherwise, when Quinn and myself are involved.”

He laughs. “Yeah, like nothing’s changed. Like Quinn’s scary face. Mandy’s got it, you should see her.”

* * *

They mark their fourth year apart with a trip back to Lima. Eleanor stays with her dad, while Rachel stays with her fathers.

Leroy has yet to say anything on the subject of Finn (unlike Hiram, who has been saying plenty for the both of them). “How are things, Rachelah?”

“Everything’s fine. Elly started junior ballet, and I've gotten an ensemble role in this new musical. I’ll send you and Daddy tickets.”

“That's good, but that wasn't what I was asking.”

Rachel sighs. “About Finn and I?”

“You can't expect me not to worry, princess. You move to New York for the second time and Finn comes back alone barely six months later… your Daddy and I worry, you know that. You and our precious granddaughter alone.”

“... you aren't going to ask me to come home too; are you, Dad?”

Leroy sighs. “No. I know you too well for that. You've had your heart set on Broadway since you were three and we took you to your first junior pageant.”

She wants to scream; how is it that everyone knows her better than she knows herself? “Dad… was it a bad idea? Going back?”

“Do you regret anything?”

“No, of course not. I love Elly, and she seems much happier now that she’s made some close friends.” She stares at her hands in her lap. “I regret that Finn and I didn't work out. I should've tried harder.”

“Rachel, you married that boy in high school despite objections from everyone – from the adults, and even your friends. You gave up New York for him; I’ll admit, I couldn't believe it at first.” Leroy leans closer, grasps her hand in his. “Baby girl. We can see how hard the two of you have tried to make things work. You're doing the best you can, both for yourself and for Elly.”

“I'm a terrible mother. I'm like – ”

“You are not,” he says firmly. “Anyway, Noah tells me that Beth has grown up into a wonderful young lady, so I don't think that comparison stands.”

She sighs. “I'm not making the biggest mistake of my life?”

“Even if you are, I'm in no position to judge,” chuckles Leroy. “I'm your dad. Of course I want to wrap you in cotton wool and make sure nothing bad ever happens to you, but… I can't.”

“I know.”

* * *

She waits nervously on the doorstep. Rachel finds it discomfiting, being in this place that is familiar and unfamiliar simultaneously.

He opens the door. “Hey,” says Finn, shuffling a little. “Come in.”

“Hi, Finn.” Rachel waits for him to stoop so she can kiss his cheek like she has for years; they stay a moment too late before he remembers, and then bends. Finn doesn't meet her eyes when he straightens.

Rachel clears her throat. “Should I keep my coat on?Are we going out for dinner?”

“Nah, I cooked. Elly taught me to make that spaghetti dish of yours.” He grins bashfully at her as he takes her coat and leads the way to the kitchen. “You wanna – you can have a seat first? I’ll be right out.”

“I can help,” offers Rachel.

“Nah, it’s cool. It’s done, I just need – it’s cool.” Finn quickly ducks into the kitchen. She can feel her cheeks burning with embarrassment, and she know he’s feeling just as awkward, if not more so.

The house hasn't changed, apart from the pictures on the mantelpiece; some new photos of Eleanor from her school sports day that she took, one of Finn sitting at a drumkit with toddler Eleanor on his lap. A macaroni-accented drawing entitled ‘My Family’.

Surprisingly, there is a photo of the three of them at the county fair. Rachel remembers it being taken just before they moved to New York.

He returns quickly, plates in hand. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Gimme a minute.”

Finn’s never really helped with the cooking; his culinary skills were limited to reheating leftovers and Easy Mac, and he’d only learned to help chop vegetables and fetch things from high cabinets. But Rachel watches him bustle about getting things ready, and she feels a surge of affection well up. “Wow,” she says, smiling at the table, “this looks amazing. I didn't know you could cook like this.”

“Elly taught me a few things,” he shrugs. “I've been living off takeout, mostly.”

“Finn.”

“I ate my veggies,” he says defensively. “I don't need to watch my diet so closely. I went for a health checkup recently and the doc said I was healthier than some of the twenty-somethings he sees.”

She bites back the automatic rebuke on the tip of her tongue. “That's great, Finn.”

He seems to sense that she’s holding back, and he gives her his usual smile.

The food isn't great, but she can tell he’s proud of it from the way he beams at her compliments. They manage to pass the meal with small talk focused on Eleanor, on his work, their friends. Rachel learns that he and Noah spend time together regularly, and by extension, he and Puck’s children.

“Puck trades off weekends with Mandy and Jordan,” says Finn, polishing off what's left on his plate. “That's the good thing about living in the same city with Quinn.”

Rachel struggles not to react. She knows Finn isn't quietly malicious, bless him, but he's never quite mastered the art of tactfulness. “That's nice.”

“Yeah. Can you believe Mandy’s already in junior high? Soon, it’ll be Elly’s turn.” He puts down his napkin and looks up at her. “Rach, I was thinking… I get that you want to stay in New York, and that's fine, but maybe Elly could start junior high back here? That's like, next year. I mean, I'm not saying that you're not a good mom, or that she’s not happy there,” he rushes to add. “Puck and my mom thinks it’s good if she grows up here where there’s more family to keep an eye out for her.”

“Finn…”

“I thought it out. Like, I could get a transfer to Lima Junior High, and I could keep an eye on her. Make sure she doesn't get picked on and stuff, you know how mean kids are at her age. She says she likes biology, and I checked; Lima Junior High has a pretty solid science program, and they get to go to real labs during the summer.”

“Finn,” interrupts Rachel gently, “when did you get so scared of me?”

“I'm not,” he says. “Elly’s my daughter too, and I should have a say in what she does. I mean, I’m her dad.”

There’s something about the tone of his voice that sets alarm bells ringing in her head. “That's never been in question.”

“Look, Rach, the reason why I asked you over is because I want Elly to come home. I'm her dad, but I only see her like once a year. It’s not fair.”

“Doesn't she have a say in this?”

“Don't _I_ get a say in this?” He finishes the wine in his glass. “I'm getting a beer. Do you want one?”

“I'm fine, thanks, but I don't think you should be drinking when we talk about this.”

“I’ll drink when I want,” replies Finn. He reappears, beer in hand, cracking it open. “I think Elly should come live with me. Think about it,” his voice changes to a placating tone, “I’ll be around more to look out for her, she’ll be close to her grandparents and Quinn and Puck, you’ll be able to focus on your auditions and stuff. It’s a great idea, so what's stopping you?”

“Apart from the fact you're springing a major decision like this on me without warning?”

He shrugs. “So it’s a bit out of the blue, but let’s be real, it’s not like it’s so unlikely or extreme. Besides, I've more than done my part, it’s time you contributed too.”

“Done your part? Contributed? Finn, what on earth are you talking about?”

“I wasn't happy in New York. Never was, and I didn't need to go back to know I don't belong there.” His eyes are sad. “But you weren't happy, and I get that. I know how important Broadway is to you, Rach, and that's why I tried again. Even with Elly coming along. I wanted you to know that I did my best, but it just wasn't good enough.” Finn studies the side of his beer. “So this is me trying again, for us. If you won't come home, Rach, I won't stop you. I mean, of course I want us to be a family again, and Elly needs her mom, but I don't want you to think I'm forcing you back.”

“You want me to give up,” says Rachel.

“I want you to do your part for us,” replies Finn. “We were so happy, Rach.”

She shakes her head. “I don't understand you. You said you knew I wasn't happy here, but you're asking me to come back?”

“You did it before. Babe…” Finn runs his hand through his hair. “All I'm asking is for you to come home. Not right now – you said you've got parts, and that's great, I'm so happy for you. That's why I suggested Elly could move back first. I want you to be sure before you come home for good… we shouldn't be doing this all over again.”

Rachel continues to shake her head; looking into his earnest face, it’s clear he genuinely believes he’s doing the right thing. “Finn, stop.”

“Why? Why aren't you seeing reason? Damnit, Rach, I'm trying here!” He slams the flat of his hand on the table; she flinches at the loud bang. Finn looks instantly contrite, staring at his hand as though it’s betrayed him. “I'm sorry.”

She stands up. “I think I should go now.”

“No, wait. Rachel!” Finn chases after her, catching her shoulder as she steps into the hallway and spinning her around. Rachel gasps as her back hits the wall. “Don't walk away, goddamnit, we’re not done here.”

“Yes we are,” she says, chin tilted up defiantly, staring into his eyes. “We’re done, Finn.”

His face crumples. Finn lets go of her shoulder and stumbles back against the other side of the hall. “Fuck, Rachel. I'm sorry.” His knees give way, and he sits down hard, face in his hands. “Where did we go wrong?”

“Finn…” She kneels in front of him, torn between wanting to make them right and…

… being herself again. Her fingers alight on his shoulder.

“I love you, Finn Hudson.”

His shoulders tense, but he doesn't look up.

“But you're right. I'm not happy here. Every day was killing me. I have to do this – selfish as I know I'm being. But I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I continued choosing you over my dreams, Finn, and I'm sorry if you see it that way.” Her voice softens. “I don't regret marrying you. I want you to know that. I've never regretted a single moment of it. We were happy.”

“Who is it?”

“What?”

He glares at her, eyes red and teary. “What's his name? The other guy.”

“There is no other guy.”

“Yeah? Because I find it really hard to believe that you would choose your career over your family if there isn't anyone else, Rachel.”

She can't help but to see his line of thinking. “There’s no one else, Finn.”

“Tell me the truth for once. You're in love with Quinn.”

“What…? Finn, are you even listening to yourself? Don't be absurd – Quinn’s not gay, and neither am I. We’re both married to other people – I’m married to _you_. Was married to you,” she adds, and he flinches.

“Puck knows,” he says, and she blanches.

“Puck _knows_? There’s nothing to know, Finn! Why would you talk to Puck about this?”

“He’s my best friend, and he’s married to Quinn,” Finn says evenly. “And we’re married. This is so fucked up.” He’s gotten a lot better at managing his temper over the years, and the use of the expletive is the only indicator of the rage that would have manifested in his kicking chairs fifteen years ago. As it is, his quiet rage is more terrifying than his petulant anger has ever been. She can only gape at him, mind buzzing at the insanity of his accusations.

Except… he isn't completely wrong; in her reality, she _was_ in love with Quinn Fabray. Here, it’s complicated because this isn't _her_ Quinn, and she can't be _that_ Rachel.

“What makes you say such a thing?” asks Rachel because even though she can see that the question breaks his heart, she has to know exactly how she has failed him. “Why _Quinn_ , of all people?”

His heels scrape on the floor as he tries to sit up straight. “How do I know?” says Finn mulishly. “It’s always you or Quinn screwing me over. I don't wanna know the exact details.”

“This is – you're being completely ridiculous. I don't know where you've pulled these wild accusations from. There is no other person, and even if there was, it’s not Quinn. For god’s sake – she’s not _gay_!”

Finn lifts his head. “You sound awfully upset about that.”

She laughs mirthlessly. “My _husband_ just accused me of being in love in my best _friend_. I think I'm entitled to be upset.” Rachel picks up her handbag. “I'm leaving now. Don't follow me.”

As she tries to get the front door open, Rachel realises he’s changed the locks. That simple fact is what it takes for it to sink in; they’re over. She’s completely, irrevocably, lost Finn. Her shoulders shake as she fishes her house keys out of her bag, pulls her key off the ring, and drops it on the floor.

* * *

Her fathers don’t need to ask; they can tell the dinner didn't go well. They offer to take Eleanor to Columbus for the day (she heard that Finn was grateful for the space), leaving her food (butternut squash soup, her childhood favourite) and promises of hugs and a listening ear. It makes Rachel smile, despite how deep she is mired in her grief.

She is sitting in her old room leafing through her high school photo albums when the doorbell rings. Rachel would've ignored it if she hadn't heard Quinn’s voice calling her name.

She pauses to glance at herself in the hallway mirror, pursing her lips at the red-eyed, disheveled wreck of a woman there, on her way to answer the door.

“Hello, Quinn.”

“Finn told me everything,” says her friend without preamble. “Is it true? Are you in love with me?”

Rachel shrugs. “Finn told you…? It doesn't matter. It’s not true anyway.” She walks into the house. Quinn follows.

“He seems to think it’s true. Rachel, I – are you alright?”

“My husband – soon to be ex-husband – ” says Rachel bitingly, and Quinn starts, “ – thinks that I'm in love with my female best friend, who is married to our high school friend.” She collapses on the couch. “You know how Finn can be. Why did you believe him?”

“I thought – no.”

She lifts her gaze. “Quinn?”

Quinn has her arms folded across her chest as she stares resolutely out the window. At length, she sighs – a deep heavy sigh that seems to leave her smaller. “... I see the way you look at me.”

She feels like her chest constricting. “What?”

“I spent four years around Santana and Brittany; seeing them around school, alone together... I see how they look at each other, and… I thought, that's how you look at me.” Quinn finally tears her eyes away from the window. “Please, tell me I'm wrong.”

“All this while, you never said anything,” is all Rachel can think to say.

“I couldn't. How was I going to bring this up? I was so sure I was seeing things, that everything was fine, we were going to laugh about it one day. You said it yourself, Rachel, that it’s ridiculous. _You're_ married, and _I'm_ married, and I _can’t_ –” she broke off, “ – I'm not made that way.”

“... you don't love me the same way.”

Anguished eyes turn on Rachel. “What…? You mean…?”

She’s tired of pretending. “I honestly don't know, Quinn.”

“Don't know what? Whether you're in love with me or not?”

“Does it matter? You and I are friends. You and I can't be anything more than friends. Why do you need to put a label on it?”

“So, Finn was right.”

“I don't give a _fuck_ whether Finn is right or wrong,” growls Rachel. “It doesn’t change anything.”

“Yes, it does.” Quinn looks lost. “It changes everything about _us_. Rachel… I don’t want to hurt you.”

All the anger leaves Rachel. “I know.” She bites on her lower lip.

“Tell me the truth. Please.”

She doesn’t need to say anything. Rachel looks into Quinn’s hazel eyes, knowing her soul is laid bare for her friend to see – as it always has been.

Quinn breaks eye contact first. “... I have to go. I’m sorry.”

* * *

By the time Eleanor and her fathers come back, she’s composed herself enough to greet them with a smile, and she spends the rest of the night listening to Eleanor’s stories of the day she had.

Hiram lingers in the kitchen after Leroy puts Eleanor to bed with a story. “Rachelah, is everything alright?”

“No, Daddy.”

“Oh, princess.”

“I’m okay. I think. Daddy… how did you know you were gay? Or not straight?”

He furrows his brow. “Is there something more you need to tell me?”

“Finn thinks I'm in love with Quinn.”

Much to his credit (or because he’s her father, and he’s grown accustomed to her dramatics), Hiram doesn't overreact. “Okay,” he says carefully. “Are you?”

Rachel shakes her head. “It doesn't matter, because she’s not gay, and my marriage just came to an end, and I have a daughter to worry about.” She doesn't realise her voice has risen in pitch to a harsh whisper until Hiram shushes her, his hands warm and gentle around her cheeks. “Sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, princess.”

“I'm turning 34 soon. I don't even have a grip on my own life, and I have Elly to think about. I shouldn't be creating extra problems for myself.” She buries her face in her hands. “How did I let things get this bad?”

“They're not.”

“Yes, they are.”

“Rachelah, your dad and I raised you better than that. You're a fighter, you and Elly, and it’s not the end of the world. I know you know that.”

“Maybe,” admits Rachel.

“Here’s what I know you're going to do,” says Hiram. “You’ll go back to New York and go on with life. You’ll raise my precious granddaughter to be as strong and determined as you are. You’ll send your dad and I tickets to your big opening night.” He chucks Rachel under the chin gently, smiling. “In the end, things’ll work out, as long as you stay true to yourself. I promise.”

“But… what about Quinn?”

Hiram blows air out through his teeth. “That’s complicated and very personal, baby. I can’t tell you what you have to do.”

She sighs.

* * *

On her last day in Lima, Rachel has planned things already. While Eleanor is at Finn’s place (no longer theirs), she’ll spend the day reading through her script.

She certainly wasn’t expecting Quinn to march into her living room and stand in front of her couch, hands on her hips, as though she was a natural part of the decor.

“Quinn?” squeaks Rachel, almost dropping her script in her surprise.

Her friend lifts her gaze, and the familiar hazel eyes are determined, almost steely. “I can't stay too long, but I don't think I’ll need to,” says Quinn, sitting in the puffy armchair to the left that she’s always coveted.

“I don't understand.”

Quinn sighs. “As – _complicated_ – as things are between us now, you need a friend, Rach. I care about you – you're my best friend and always will be – and I can't, in good conscience, abandon you when you need me.”

Rachel finally thinks to close her mouth before the flies get in. “I – Quinn, you don't need to.”

“Yes, I do.” She fixes Rachel with a steely look that quickly quells further protest. “Rachel, you can't stay.”

“What do you mean, I can't stay? I have no idea what you're talking about,” lies Rachel.

“I know you. You're tempted to cave in to Finn again. Rachel, you’ll be killing yourself. As happy as I – we were, Puck and the kids, your dads – to have you nearby, we can't bear to watch you die inside.”

“None of you ever said anything.”

Quinn spares her a pitying look. “We knew you wouldn't listen. You know this. Now, let me continue.” She leans forward in her seat. “You're not going to be a horrible mother.”

“You don't know that for sure.”

“Maybe, but you're very predictable. You can't be a good mom if you're miserable. You know this, you know that’s why Shelby came back.”

“Shelby was feeling guilty, that's all,” snaps back Rachel. “She left a baby behind and she didn't want anything to do with the teenager she found.”

“But you can't deny she’s a good mom to Beth.” This, she knows; Shelby has devoted her entire life to raising Beth. Her motives may never be indistinguishable from the guilt she felt over the failure of reestablishing a relationship with her teenage self, but the genuine affection and warmth for her adopted daughter is apparent to all. “I won't say she’s redeemed herself or fixed everything, because she hasn't, and she never will,” Quinn says forcefully, “but _you're not Shelby_. You've always been there for Elly, you've always put her first. Trust me. I know all about putting my child first.”

“I don't know if I'm about to make the worst decision of my life,” says Rachel, her voice wavering.

“Trust yourself like you always have.” Quinn stands up. Her eyes flicker to Rachel’s hand in her lap and away, before she straightens. “I have to go. Take care of yourself, Rachel.”

A lump rapidly forms in her throat. She knows this is goodbye even if Quinn won't say the words, and she doesn't know the next time they’ll meet again (in this lifetime, at least). “You too. Send my love to the kids and Puck.”

Quinn nods, tight and composed like she used to be in high school, and then turns on her heel.

* * *

A week after she’s returned to New York, she gets a text message from Puck asking to meet. Her heart sticks in her throat as she types her affirmative reply, and gives him the address of a diner a block from her flat. Elly is at home with the babysitter since she has a show that evening.

Rachel arrives early. She chooses a booth next to the door and orders a coffee. The waitress fills her mug (such a New York cliche) just as Puck slides into the seat opposite her.

“You’re looking good, babe.”

She smiles at him, hoping it’s not as tired as she feels. “Thanks, Noah, but I've been on my feet from sunrise and I have no illusions about my current appearance. There’s no need to spare my feelings and vanity, we’ve known each other long enough to have seen each other at our best.”

“Yeah, I missed you too,” laughs Puck. “Glad to see exhaustion and the single parent life hasn't drained the vocabulary out of you. Where’s the squirt?”

“In bed. It’s a school night. What are you doing here? In New York, I mean.”

He shrugs. “Needed to see a few dealers about a new supply contract, so what the hell, might as well drop by and see my favourite unrelated Jews.”

She can't be sure he’s telling the truth, or making her feel better that he's come all the way to see her – or worse, that Quinn sent him. “Of course.”

Puck contemplates the wall briefly before saying: “Finn told me about you and Quinn.”

The one thing she’s liked about Puck is his bluntness. “I know,” she replies, equally blunt. “Finn wasn't entirely correct, there is no Quinn and myself.”

Puck frowns. “No...? I don't get it.”

“It’s complicated.”

“Yeah, most girls are, though you and my baby mama are on a whole different level of your own.” He waves the waitress over and places his order. “Explicate,” says Puck once she leaves.

Rachel rolls her eyes. “There is no Quinn and myself,” she repeats. “Finn was upset with me because I didn't want to reconcile with him. He accused me of breaking our family up, being too selfish to prioritise Elly… especially because I had agreed to give up my career for our marriage before.” She lets out a long sigh. “When I denied it, he jumped to the conclusion that there was someone else.”

“So, is there?”

“No. Quinn’s straight, and she’s never thought of me in that way.”

“But you have.”

For someone often so crude, Puck always surprises her with his perceptiveness. Rachel squirms slightly in her seat. “Yes,” she admits, looking him in the eye.

His coffee arrives. Puck nods absently at the waitress. “Okay.”

“You’re… not mad at me?”

“How can I be mad? Have you seen my baby mama?” he jokes weakly. “No, Rach. I’m not mad. Me and Quinn… things didn’t work out the way we wanted, but we’re good. The heart wants what it wants. I’m just surprised that it’s _you_ and _Quinn._ No one would’ve seen it coming, ya know what I’m saying?”

Rachel covers her face with a hand. “I – thank you, Puck.”

“Of course, I’m obliged to be a little pissed with you since Finn’s my boy, and Quinn’s my forever girl, but you’re still my Jewbabe.” He smirks. “It’s becoming a little too incestuous, but that’s so hot.”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s good to see you’re the one who’s changed the least out of the four of us, Noah.”

He laughs, but then abruptly leans in. “Now that we’ve gotten the standard shit out of the way… how are you, Rachel?” asks Puck, surprisingly gentle; a tone usually reserved for his kids.

Rachel’s arms cross over her body as she hugs herself. “I’ve been better.”

“No shit. You know as well as I do that unrequited feelings hurt.”

“Yeah, well, almost as much as I'm hurting everyone around me.”

He sighs. When his food arrives, he pushes the plate to one side, scooting over next to Rachel. “Can I?” he asks; she nods, and lets him sling an arm around her shoulders.

“I'm sorry. You know that I would never intentionally hurt any of you, right?”

“Of course. But y’see, the thing about hurting people is that most of the time, you never meant to do it but it happens anyway. I've hurt a whole lot of people over the years that I wish I hadn't.” Puck shrugs. “There’s no point in dwelling on it ‘cause it’s over and gone, but the best we can do is try and let the wounds heal. Sometimes we fuck up so badly it leaves scars, but that's life. Shit happens.”

Rachel leans her head on his shoulder. “Yeah.”

“That was scarily short.”

She sighs at Puck’s gentle teasing. “A long response hardly seems appropriate, given the severity of the situation.”

“There we go.” He squeezes her briefly before letting go, sliding over to his food.

She huffs quietly, shaking her head at him, but she’s grateful for his unique brand of understated comfort. They spend the rest of the night sipping coffee in silence.

* * *

The rest of Rachel’s life starts quietly, without any trace of the emotional earthquake she’s just went through.

After returning to New York, she files for divorce and mails the papers to Finn, her signature already on the bottom of each page. It’s an unspoken arrangement, however, that Eleanor will live in Lima with her dad. As much as it breaks Rachel’s heart to be away from her daughter, Finn was right when he said that staying in Lima would be good for her.

(The comparisons to Shelby grate on her in equal parts, but she refuses to let herself dwell on it. She is _not_ Shelby Corcoran, and she _never_ will be.)

* * *

Eleanor looks small and lost standing in the airport, surrounded by her luggage, and Rachel has to bite _hard_ on her lower lip so she won’t burst into tears. It feels horribly like she’s getting rid of her daughter, even though she’s not, _never_ , but she knows it’ll be for the best in the end.

“Dad will be waiting for you at the airport, okay?” says Rachel. “Call me once you arrive.”

“Okay, Mom.”

“Sweetheart, I…” Rachel trails off. “Take care of yourself. Send my love to Dad, and everyone. I love you.”

Eleanor’s lip quivers, but a moment later her chin juts upwards firmly. She hugs her mother perfunctorily and disappears through the gate without a glance backward.

Rachel waits until she’s safely home before she breaks down in tears.

* * *

She answers her phone on the second ring. “Elly?”

“Hi, Rachel,” says Finn stiffly.

“Hi, Finn.”

“Just calling to let you know I picked up Elly. I think she forgot.”

“How is she?”

“She’s fine. A little tired, I think, ‘cause she fell asleep in the car.” She can hear the sound of traffic in the background, and Journey’s music playing on the radio. “She said the flight was alright.”

“That’s good.”

“She doesn’t hate you.”

“How do you know that? I just sent her off with all her belongings; you didn’t see her look at me earlier, Finn.”

“She’ll understand when she’s older. You’re not making a mistake, or screwing her over.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Rach, you have Shelby for a mom. Just don’t do what she did, and I’m pretty sure things’ll be fine.”

* * *

Rachel adjusts her sunglasses, and then her dress. She knows very well that the chances of the paparazzi finding her at a college graduation ceremony are slim, but she won’t risk it. The place with choked with excited graduates and their equally-excited parents; Rachel has her phone in her hand, but she isn’t sure how on earth she’s going to find her graduate.

She gets lucky; the crowd parts, and she catches sight of her daughter. “Elly!”

“Mom!” yells the young woman, flailing over the heads of people (nearly taking out an eye in the process) and pushing her way through.

“Hi, baby,” says Rachel warmly, throwing her arms around her daughter (it irks her to no end that Eleanor outgrew her at 14 and never looked back since). “Congratulations. I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks, Mom.” She breaks the hug, smiling the lopsided grin she got from her father. “I’m glad you made it. Did you see me walk?”

“I did. You were amazing.” Rachel missed Mandy’s graduation because she was on a nationwide tour of _Wicked_ and she hasn’t yet forgiven herself for it. “You know I’d sooner throw away all my awards than miss your salutatorian speech.”

Eleanor rolls her eyes. “Yeah, right,” she grins. She pulls out her phone from the sleeve of her robe, thumbs flying across the screen. “Hey, wanna get out of the heat?”

She’s about to say _yes, please_ when the words die in her throat; she spots a familiar person not far from where they are. Eleanor turns, and her face lights up (in a way it never does when she sees Rachel, but she can’t fault her daughter for that). “Dad!”

Finn comes over, sweeping her up in a hug. Rachel looks away; she feels as though she is intruding on a private family moment as Eleanor jabbers excitedly to her father. “Congratulations, kiddo,” says Finn, tugging playfully on her ponytail – and his expression freezes when he catches sight of Rachel. “Oh. Hi, Rachel.”

“Hello, Finn.” She’s half-hoping that Eleanor would be necessary buffer between them – she hasn’t spoken directly to Finn in more than 10 years – but their daughter has managed to disappear into the throng, shouting excitedly to one of her friends. “You look good.”

He has his hands shoved in his pockets – classic Finn behaviour. “Thanks. So do you.”

“Thank you.”

Finn has aged well; his laugh lines are more defined now, and even though his hairline is receding, he’s managed to keep relatively in shape. He’s dressed better than she’s ever seen him; his blazer is cut flatteringly, his trousers aren’t wrinkled, and his oxfords complement his clothes.

He catches her staring. “Elly picked out my clothes for me,” he says sheepishly. “I would have totally worn sneakers today if I could.”

Rachel laughs. “That explains a lot.”

She is spared from further awkward small talk by the most unlikely saviours. Mandy and Jordan appear out of nowhere, grinning from ear-to-ear when they spot her. “Aunt Rachel!”

“Hi, guys.” They’ve grown so much; the last time she’s seen them was when they came with Eleanor to stay with her after graduating from high school. She’s genuinely happy to see them, but she really doesn't want to –

– well, whatever deity is there doesn't seem to be listening.

The last 15 years has been kind to Quinn; she hasn't seemed to change at all. Puck, she is less focused on because at the very least, she has seen him infrequently over the years.

Beside her, Finn stiffens. “Hey, Puck. Hi, Quinn.”

Quinn has only eyes for her. “Hi, Rachel.”

She releases a breath she hasn't realised she’s been holding. “Hello, Quinn.”

* * *

If she had thought her torment was over, she would have laughed at such wishful thinking. They all go out for dinner together, and Rachel hasn’t the heart to disappoint the children.

She spends most of the night watching them. Finn is a great dad, but he isn’t alone; it becomes apparent, from the way Eleanor talks to Puck and Quinn, that they have practically raised her.

Quinn follows her out of the restaurant in the middle of dinner.

“Yes, Quinn?”

“I… you're looking well, Rachel.” She fidgets with the strap of her bag. “I've been following your career. I'm so proud of you.”

“Thank you.”

Quinn draws a shaky breath. “Rachel, please.”

“Please what? It’s been 15 years, Quinn. You cut off all contact after that day. I think I'm entitled to be a little upset.”

“This isn't easy for me. I love you but not in that way, and I didn't want to hurt you, Rachel; we can't be anything more than friends.”

“We haven't been anything but best friends. We _were_ best friends.” Rachel sees her flinch.

“I'm sorry.”

“I called you. I wrote you emails. There were times I just needed you, my best friend, to tell me everything was going to be okay but you – ” Rachel cuts herself off, and adds, in a shakier voice: “You told Puck to tell me to stop contacting you. You couldn't even do it yourself.”

“I couldn't handle it back then.”

“And now? Nothing’s changed?”

"Not really...  I'm seeing someone now."

“Oh." She already knows; Elly told her Quinn and Puck got that divorce once their children were old enough to understand. But she didn't know Quinn was dating again. "That's great,” says Rachel, forcing a smile. “Who’s the lucky guy? Do I know him? Lima _is_ a pretty small town.”

“Actually…”

“Oh god. So, now what? Quinn Fabray’s gay?” She thought she could handle herself, but this single revelation unspools her tapestry, scattering her. “Okay. So – yeah. You're dating a woman now? Because – what? – you couldn't bear the thought of me in particular?”

“It wasn't like that,” says Quinn, who’s starting to cry already, “it wasn't supposed to happen. I was thinking a lot about you, and us, and high school… by the time I realised I wasn't entirely straight, I… it was too late, and I had destroyed us.”

“But you have never loved me the way I loved you.”

“I'm sorry, Rachel.”

Rachel closes her eyes. She know that Quinn knows that there hasn't been anyone else for her; the tabloids attest to that plenty of times. Still, she doesn't presume to know what's going through Quinn’s mind. High school alone has disproved her theories many times over. Opening her eyes, she forces a smile. “Are you happy?”

Quinn is clearly taken aback by the sudden shift in topic, but she recovers quickly. “I am.”

“That's great. As long as you're happy.” Rachel nods. “That's all I ever wanted for you.” She brushes past Quinn with a quick “good night”, ignoring the repeated calls of her name.

* * *

She receives a panicked phone call from Eleanor late one June night: it’s Finn. It turns out that persistent cough he’s had for months now developed complications. Rachel drops everything to catch the first plane back to Columbus despite her own bad rheumatism (aging _sucks_ ).

When she arrives, Eleanor is already there, red-eyed and tiny in an oversized college sweatshirt. “Mom,” she says, falling into Rachel’s arms.

“Hi, sweetheart. Where’s Stephen?”

Eleanor brushes at her eyes. “His flight was delayed. He’ll be here tomorrow morning,” she says of her fiance. “Dad’s sleeping but the doctor says you can go see him.”

She enters the room and sits in the chair beside the bed. “Finn, I'm so sorry,” she whispers.

He coughs. “Sorry? For what?”

Rachel jumps. “I – you're awake? I'm sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“S’ok. Can't sleep anyway, not with this cough.” Finn shifts in bed. “I'm turning on the light.” She blinks in the sudden brightness.

Finn, hair tousled and heavily streaked with grey, peers at her. “What're you doing here? Don't you have that lifetime awards ceremony thing tomorrow?”

Rachel lets out a choked laugh. “You know?”

“Duh.” He breaks off to wheeze; she leans closer to thump his back. “I watch the news when the nurse lets me turn on the TV. You're a pretty big deal, y’know; like, some local celebrity and all. But yeah – what’re you sorry for?”

“I regret not giving you a proper family. it was all you ever wanted, but I didn't …”

“Hey. Rach, shh. Where’d this come from? Are you okay? That was dumb – clearly you’re not okay if you skipped some awards thing to fly out here.”

“I've been a horrible wife,” she mumbles, “and a horrible mother.”

“No, you haven't.”

“Yes, I have.”

“If you say so.” Finn sounds supremely unconvinced, and Rachel can't help but smile. “We’re ex-high school sweethearts who raised a beautiful girl.”

“I could have tried harder. We could've been more.”

He grins. “There was a time when all I wanted was for you to say that, but…” Finn shakes his head. “We tried. We had our time, but just ‘cause it wasn't forever doesn't make it any less real. Elly is real. Speaking of Elly, is she still outside?”

“Yeah. She’s waiting for Stephen, she said he’ll be coming tomorrow morning.”

Finn grunted. “I kinda get why Quinn’s dad hated me so much now. Hard to see your baby girl with another guy in her life.”

Rachel brushes tears from her eyes, laughing quietly. “I know what you mean. Finn… I care about you so much, I always have. I know I haven't been the best, but…”

“I never needed you to be the best.” He pauses. “Other than at Broadway, of course.”

She shakes her head.

Finn’s hand finds hers. “I just needed you to be you.” He’s always been better than her when it came to the important things,  managing to convey things in words that she needs paragraphs to articulate. “And you were. Even when it was tough, you didn't compromise. I can’t fault you for that. I mean, I was angry, and it took me a long time to get over you and the whole thing, but Elly turned out to be a great kid. That’s all that matters in the end, right? The big stuff, not the small things.”

“... I'm so sorry.” She smiles. “Elly’s great, isn’t she?”

He lights up. “Best kid ever.”

“At least we got something right.”

“Yeah,” says Finn, and yawns.

“I should go. It’s late. You need your rest.”

“Hey, hang on.” He looks up at her. “We’re okay; aren’t we, Rach?”

She stares at him. “Of course we are. That’s never – _I_ should be asking you that, I’m the one that broke us up.”

“I don’t keep score,” he says with a shrug. “Scores are for games and stuff, but no one really cares once the championship’s over.” Then Finn grunts as Rachel flings her arms around his neck. “Too hard,” he pants, and she lets go – or tries to, but he keeps hold of her hands so she doesn’t retreat too far. “Sorry. It’s been a while, and… yeah. Not used to that anymore.”

“Finn Hudson, you’re an idiot.”

“Heard that plenty of times,” he says, coughing, but still somehow managing to grin at her.

* * *

The funeral is well-attended, by students of many generations, and it heartens Rachel to see so many people whose lives had been changed by Finn.

Quinn smiles at her, silent and red-eyed, and she nods back. There is a woman holding onto Quinn’s arm as she leaves; Rachel hesitates for a moment before turning away to comfort her daughter.

* * *

It’s cancer.

Truthfully, she isn't afraid when the doctor says that dreaded word – partly because she’s had a good long life and she’s _so tired_ – but mostly because this isn't her end, not really.

Saying her farewells without knowing which will be her last are the hardest, though.

Mandy and Jordan visit her in the ward with their families, each promising her she’d be out of that bed and belting notes like Julie Andrews in no time.

Puck had visited to show off his new walking cane. Rachel is frankly astounded by his good health given his wild younger days. “It’s the vodka,” he says knowingly, patting his belly. “Pickled my insides. Plus, sex counts as exercise. Don't you wish you’d partied a little more when you could, babe?”

Eleanor breezes into her room unexpectedly, having cut short her lecture tour to visit, and bring exciting news; she’s pregnant.

Most surprising – or least surprising, considering their track record – is Quinn’s appearance two weeks after she’s been admitted to the hospital. Eleanor is there with her, holding her hand and talking quietly to her because she hasn't the energy to sit up for a while now, when a knock sounds at the door and Quinn lets herself in.

“Aunt Quinn,” says Eleanor, surprised. “Hi – I didn't know you were coming…”

“I'm sorry. Is this a bad time?”

She glances at Rachel. “Well – Mom’s pretty tired, and – ”

Rachel tugs on Eleanor’s hand. “Sweetheart – let me talk to her. Okay?”

A muscle goes in her daughter’s cheek; she’s old enough to know why they aren't friends anymore, and – bless her – Eleanor’s on her side, despite the fact Quinn practically raised her. Rachel still doesn't know what she’s done to deserve such loyalty. “Alright. I’ll get some coffee.”

Quinn hovers nervously by until Rachel says, “I can't sit up, so you’ll have to pull up a chair and come closer.” She nods jerkily before sitting in the chair Eleanor just vacated. “It’s good to see you,” continues Rachel. “You look great. How’s your partner? I don't believe you've told me her name.”

“Karen. She’s fine.” Quinn clears her throat. “Rachel... I'm sorry.”

“You know, I've always appreciated how you've come straight to the point all these years.” Rachel turns her head on her pillow to smile at Quinn. “What are you apologising for, though?”

“For wasting all these years. For breaking your heart. I don't know. I've… I missed you, so much.”

“I've missed you too. But it had to be this way; you know that, don't you?”

“We could've stayed friends…”

Rachel laughs softly. Time has dulled everything to a soft ache, and she is more inclined to wistfulness than tears. “You know that would have hurt me more. I could never be satisfied being just friends with you, Quinn. Trust me, it was better like this.” She puts out her hand. “Dramatic as it is, I'm glad I got to see you one last time, though.”

“Rachel, no.” Quinn takes the outstretched hand in both of her own. “You still – you've got plenty more years to dominate the stage.”

“Quinn, I'm in the palliative care ward; I'm quite confident in my ability to read signs. Half my treatment consists of morphine. I thought you were the realistic one.” She squeezes Quinn’s hands. “Look at us. We had pretty good lives, both of us, with and without each other. There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

“I've missed you,” says Quinn, “every single day.”

Rachel smiles. “So have I.”

* * *

She still remembered her last day clearly. They’d talked for hours; summer sun was hot, and she’d felt drowsy. Quinn had pulled the curtains shut so she could take a quick nap. She needed to leave, but she had said something about visiting the following morning to continue catching up. Rachel had smiled, told her to drive safe. She’d settled back, eyes slipping shut as Quinn disappeared out the door…

… and the next thing she knew, Rachel was waking up in her lounge chair on the deck.

She drew a deep breath, and then another. Her lungs sucked in air greedily.

“Did you enjoy your life?” asked the man sitting across from her.

“I – I died.”

“You did.”

“This is bizarre.” Rachel leant her head against the back of the chair. “You must have slipped something in my drink. I’ll wake up tomorrow with a pounding headache and my publicist screaming in my ear about the morning headlines.”

“If that’s your second wish…”

“No! That’s not – be careful what I wish for, huh?”

He shrugged, leaning back into his chair. “That would be wise, yes.”

“I need a drink.”

“Would that be wise? Your actions now – unlike earlier – _do_ have consequences; in this case, on your liver.”

Rachel ignored him. She reached for the glass on the table and drained it.

Her companion smirked. Waving at her now-empty glass, he nodded as it filled with dark red liquid. “I think you’d like this. I can do a lot better than that simple water-into-wine business. Those peasants probably would have drunk camel piss if you told them it was wine, and not known the difference.”

She bit back the sarcastic response on the tip of her tongue to sniff the wine. It smelt heady; Cabernet, strong and rich. The flavour swirled in her mouth and lingered long after she’d swallowed the wine. “Not bad. You could consider doing this after, when you’re tired of playing with people.”

“I’ll never get tired of playing with people.” He raised his own glass – now filled with the same wine instead of whiskey – to her. In the dim light, the liquid glittered darkly, looking like blood. “Here’s to your health, Rachel Berry.”

“At the expense of my sanity.” She took another sip, and then another.

He waited until her glass was empty again before asking: “So, your second wish?”

Rachel contemplated the distant party for a long while. “I can't. Not now,” she said at length, not looking at him. “Maybe another day.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

“That's too soon.”

He grinned at her, baring his teeth in a feral expression. “I, unlike you, haven't the luxury of time and comfort.” The man seemed to pause, and then added, “Unless you're afraid? I could – ”

“I'm not afraid,” says Rachel sharply.

“You should be.”

Rachel closed her eyes. “Tomorrow.”

 


	3. The Second Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the fic earns all its trigger warnings, folks. If you hate me after reading this, you may join the angry mobs with pitchforks to the left.  
> Further notes, meta, and commentary can be found on my Tumblr [here](http://yumi-michiyo.tumblr.com/post/158581440186/for-you-id-burn-the-length-and-breadth-of-sky).

She woke up in her own bed the next morning disoriented, and with a hangover. It took her a while to remember the events of the previous night – her head was still pounding – but it was coming back in bits and pieces. Rachel sighed, rubbing her temples.

That was a horrible dream. The strange man, the whole traveling back in time… Quinn.

The Rachel she was now was in love with Quinn Fabray; that was a fact that she couldn't change. Teenage Rachel might have felt the same way, but teenage Rachel was also immature and impulsive, with the tendency to fall too hard and too quickly for the first person to throw affection her way. And so adult Rachel living a life in which they were married to other people was a pain most exquisite.

Despite being hungover, she'd still managed to wake up early enough that the breakfast room was still open. (No elliptical, though; she hadn't felt motivated enough for it in months.)

Rachel felt marginally better after a cup of black coffee and a bowl of cut fruits. The shades and hat she wore to block out the sun helped.

Just as the fog in her head had dissipated enough for her to write off last night as an alcohol-soaked hallucination, the man from last night casually slipped into the seat opposite her, whisky still in hand. "You look a lot better after your coffee and a little shut-eye," he observed. "I can certainly understand why; they know how to brew excellent coffee, but I prefer something stronger in the morning."

She stared at him disbelievingly. "You."

"Yes, me. So much for that alcohol-soaked hallucination, eh?"

Rachel's mouth fell open, and then she snapped it shut. "I'm still dreaming. You're not real."

"I may not be real. That's up to your definition of reality. But that life you lived felt pretty real, didn't it?"

It had. She'd rather give up a leading role than say it, though. "Then I have two wishes left?"

He nodded. "You can start now, if you wish."

"That won't be necessary," she interjected hastily. "That – _experience_ – last night has made me see that I will need to think things over carefully before I make my wish."

"Ah, a clever one," he said with a mocking laugh. He stood up, pushing in his chair. "I'll see you tonight, then. Same time, same place?" He sauntered off without waiting for her response.

* * *

The stretch of beach was deserted again, now that the sun had set. She had spent her day cooped up in her room (an improvement from her previous days spent cooped up in the hotel bar) with her laptop open, surfing Facebook, trying to catch up with as many people's lives as possible without actually talking to them.

It was surprisingly easy. Her high school friends weren't celebrities, and so their Facebook pages were filled with photos and statuses, shared posts and inside jokes. Rachel didn't even recognise most of the people in her friends' photos. In contrast, her Facebook and social media pages were constantly filled with updates from "Rachel" (her assistant; she rarely had the time to spend online in recent years). She beamed at the camera in staged candid shots from parties, from gym visits, from backstage photos.

The same few people were smiling right beside her; her stylist, James. Her makeup artist, Michele. Her assistant, Carla. It made sense that she was so close to them, since she spent most of her time with them. The most recent post was dated from a week ago (a shot of her in a large floppy sunhat), stating that she was on holiday and would be back soon, peppered with an appropriate amount of trending emoji.

(She had never been good at social media; that was what Carla was for.)

It felt cold, impersonal, and all around depressing.

She went to Quinn's page. Quinn never liked Facebook, only keeping it to stay connected to people. Most of the content on her wall were photos she had been tagged in. Rachel noted that a majority of the unflattering ones were posted by Santana.

Even so, it was impossible for Quinn to actually look unflattering. She was laughing at the phone camera in Brittany's hand, Santana in the middle with her arms around them. The caption read: _the unholy trinity *heartz*_

Was she still in New York? Did she change her mind and move back to Chicago, now that she no longer had a reason to stay? Rachel bit her lip. She had respected Brittany and Santana's decision to remain neutral and not asked about Quinn, but she _really_ fucking wanted to know.

And so Rachel was consoling herself with a mini vodka she'd taken from the minibar, sipping it as she waited.

"You're early. No parties to attend? Hot girls to meet?"

"Let's get this over with," said Rachel without turning around, "so I can forget this whole thing ever happened."

He tutted. "You make it sound like this is a chore. Is it? Should I make it more... _interesting_?"

There was something in the way he enunciated the last word they made a shiver run down her spine. "No, thank you," said Rachel curtly. "I'd like to make my wish now, please."

The man smirked. He stood in front of her, hand outstretched.

Rachel paused before she took it. She mouthed the words over and over again, going over them in her mind.

"Once bitten, twice shy," he offered. Rachel glared at him.

"You can't blame me for wanting to get this absolutely right. I can't – I don't want a repeat of last night." The memory of Quinn staring at her, betrayal in her eyes, still made Rachel's heart clench – even if it wasn't real.

The man shrugged. "Your prerogative," he said.

She grasped his hand.

* * *

Rachel is sitting in the cold and sterile hospital waiting room, still wearing her wedding dress. Beside her, Finn is crammed into a plastic chair, tie loosened, looking mildly befuddled. Some of the Glee club kids are clustered around them in similar states of dress.

It's a tenser tableau of the last time. Rachel feels her stomach clench, knowing what's about to happen.

"Rachel? You okay?"

"Yeah. I'm fine, Finn."

"Okay. You just kinda zoned out there, for a moment." He wraps an arm around her and squeezes her shoulder. "She's gonna be okay."

She just nods, but as she lets herself lean into Finn, she's genuinely afraid for what is in store for her this time.

* * *

Quinn's alive.

But she's not intact.

Rachel can't bring herself to go into her room. Quinn will be in her wheelchair, yes; but this time it's permanent.

She hadn't reacted when Santana – one of the first Glee clubbers to visit Quinn – stormed out of the ward and gritted out phrases like _irreversible spinal cord trauma_ and _permanent disability_ at her. She still didn't move, not even when Santana tried to attack her and was held back. Rachel simply stood there, mind blank with shock, as Santana screamed that it was all her fault, she was a terrible person, that Quinn didn't deserve this.

In the end, Brittany and Mercedes had dragged Santana away while Finn led her from the waiting room.

She knows what she has to do. Previously, she had simply ignored Quinn because she was scared. But now, already with foreknowledge of everything she can and will be, she weighs them against the idea of Quinn and comes to an easy decision.

They're not forever. They're not endgame. And even if she loves him and he loves her, even if they shared something real, she won't put him through the pain.

He'll get over her. It'll kill them both, but better she kill him now then bleed him dry over the years.

It's nothing new, but Rachel hates what she's become.

* * *

She goes to visit Finn, her engagement ring in hand. He lets her into his room and once he closes the door, she presses it into his hand.

"Rach?"

"I'm sorry."

He continues to stare, dumbfounded. "But, we – we can still get married, after Quinn's okay."

"I know. That's not the reason I'm doing this." Rachel wracks her brain for the speech she'd prepared. "Finn… everyone's right. We're too young to get married, and we're getting married for the wrong reasons. We have different dreams and goals in life. We'd only make each other miserable in the long term, and I care about you too much to let that happen to us."

"You don't know that for sure," he argues, and she bites down on her lower lip. "I said I'd come with you. I'm okay with New York because i'll have you. We promised we'd make it work."

"We can't. I didn't… I wanted to rush into marrying you, because I was scared."

"Scared? Of what?"

"Everything," she admits, wiping away hot tears with the back of her hand, "of New York, of leaving Lima, of growing up, of being alone out there. I needed to feel grounded."

He takes a step towards her; she withdraws, shaking her head, and he clenches his jaw. "I'll always be here for you, Rachel."

"But I want you to be more than just my anchor."

"I don't want to be anything else but."

Rachel has to laugh. Finn will never change; he will be romantic, and grand, and simple in the things that matter. She hates herself for what she's about to do. "You'll have to be."

"Are you… we're not just postponing the wedding? You're breaking up with me?" Finn stares dumbly at the ring in his palm.

"Finn…"

"You…" He lifts his gaze to a crying Rachel, then back to the ring. "What did we… did I do something wrong?"

"What? Finn, _no_."

"Then why? Why are you doing this?" The last words are whispered as his face screws up.

"We shouldn't have let it get this far. I'm so sorry."

"Out," says Finn, "out, get out, Rachel." He's already sobbing as he hurls the tiny ring to one corner, fists balling at his sides.

She doesn't need to be told twice.

* * *

The next day at school, she is walking in the corridor when a hand grabs her shoulder and whirls her around.

"I don't know why you would break up with Finn after promising to marry him," says Kurt, his mouth tight and angry, "but you'd better have a damned good explanation for this."

Rachel gasps, partly in surprise, mostly because his grip is too tight. "Kurt, you're hurting me."

He eases off a fraction. "Let me get this straight. We've been telling you not to rush into marriage for _weeks_. You both stubbornly insist on it, and then it only gets called off because of Quinn's accident. But then you don't settle for calling off the wedding, you break your entire _relationship_ off entirely. Finn's been locked in his room all day, Rachel. You broke him. I don't know what games you're playing here."

"I'm not," she says, eyes filling with tears, "I didn't want to hurt him."

"Too late. You should've thought about that before you practically threw his ring in his face." He lets go of her like she is something disgusting. "Finn just had one of his friends nearly die, then his fiancee decides she doesn't want him anymore, and she doesn't have the decency to tell him why. I'm appalled, Rachel. I thought you were a fundamentally decent person, but it seems I was wrong."

He stalks away down the hall.

* * *

("This wasn't what I wished for," she whispers into her pillow.)

* * *

Rachel, armed with the maturity and understanding gained over one-and-a-half lifetimes' worth of knowing Quinn, visits three weeks after the accident, two weeks after Quinn wakes up. Even then, she pauses so long outside Quinn's room that the nurse on duty actually stops to say a few words of encouragement.

"Hi, Quinn."

Quinn smiles back. "Hi." Most of the small cuts (from the glass, when the truck rammed into her side) have faded, and it almost seems like nothing has happened. Frankly, Rachel's amazed by how _normal_ it all seems. "Thanks for visiting."

"It's nothing. I… I'm sorry."

"Don't be," says Quinn automatically. "It wasn't your fault."

Rachel tucks her lips inwards, taking the seat beside Quinn's bed in silence.

"... Rachel, is something wrong?"

"Apart from the obvious?" Oh, she _had_ planned on unraveling like a ball of string; neatly and slowly. She'd rehearsed structured progressions on how she's feeling. But it fails. She can't keep her pent-up emotions from spilling over into a conversation one-and-a-half lifetimes overdue. "Quinn, you almost _died_. Because of _me_ and my stupid wedding – which never happened anyway. I know I didn't cause the accident, that it's not my fault, whatever; but you can't pretend I didn't have anything to do with it."

"Rachel…"

She swipes tears from her eyes angrily. "I hate that this happened to you. You've gone through so much, and this isn't… you deserve more. You have an amazing life ahead of you, I know, but it could've been… it's not _fair_." Rachel falls back into her seat with a huff; she's normally more coherent, she _swears_.

The silence after she finishes talking is palpable. Quinn's fingers move weakly. "Rachel."

"... I'm sorry. For unloading like that. Do you want me to leave now?"

"There isn't really a reason for why terrible things happen," begins Quinn, "but I believed – I still believe – that things do work out for the best."

"Yeah? Because I don't know what exactly you have in mind if this is for the best."

She shrugs.

Rachel sighs and nods.

"What, no rambling speeches or comebacks?"

"No," admits Rachel.

"That's a first."

Rachel doesn't bother trying to hide her hurt expression. Quinn sighs. When she speaks again, it's without that combative, insulting tone. "Sorry. I'll admit that the past few weeks hasn't been easy. Coming to terms with…" She trails off, and continues: "It's a work in progress. I'm getting there slowly. I've got my friends, my mom – "

"Me," interjects Rachel, and blushes. "And me – that is, if you'll have me," she adds.

Quinn smiles mirthlessly. "I suppose."

This time, Rachel tries not to look hurt. Her determination to marry Finn was a long, long time ago for her, but to Quinn it's only been slightly over two weeks – which, even then, didn't go through because of her accident rather than any changing of minds. It's no wonder Quinn is being so cold to her, but she understands. "Okay," nods Rachel. "... I have an appointment. I think I should go now."

Quinn doesn't stop her or say goodbye, but she isn't calling Rachel hurtful names or blaming her for the accident either. Rachel supposes it's a start.

* * *

Most of Glee club isn't speaking to her; half because dumping her fiance after being so insistent on marriage was a shitty thing to do, the other half because she finally saw sense and called off the wedding only because Quinn nearly died for it.

That essentially means none of Rachel's friends are on speaking terms with her. Even Mike – sweet, easy-going Mike – won't meet her eyes in homeroom.

The only person that will still talk to her is Quinn, if only because being confined to her hospital bed means she isn't able to run when Rachel visits. That last reason is glumly opined by Rachel.

Quinn sighs in exasperation. "Rachel, you're being overdramatic. They don't hate you."

"Yes, they do, and with good reason. I'm a bitch." She pillows her head with her hands, resting on Quinn's bed. "You haven't asked me," she adds.

"Asked you what?"

"Why I broke it off with him. You can, if you wanted; I wouldn't be offended."

Quinn blew out a long breath. "That's between you and him. It's not my place to pry, especially since Finn and I have a history."

"I assure you, you're not overstepping your bounds."

"It's not just _that_ , Rachel. It's just weird." Quinn wrinkles her nose. "Don't you think?"

Rachel lifts her head a little. "It's only weird if we make it weird."

"It's already weird."

"How so? I don't believe there are any lingering feelings on either side; I'm quite certain that whatever you and Finn shared was over quite a while ago, even considering your dalliances behind my back. Furthermore, since we're friends, it would make sense for us to share personal problems with each other." She says the last sentence carefully, casting furtive hopeful glances at Quinn as she waits for a reaction.

Quinn is saved by a knock on the door, and the nurse on duty coming in to announce that visiting hours are ending soon. Rachel sighs. She makes a show of getting up and gathering her things together (all under the nurse's baleful gaze), occasionally stealing glances at Quinn to see if she'll respond. "I guess I'll see you soon?" asks Rachel hopefully.

"Yeah, whatever. Bye, Rachel."

* * *

It takes a while, but the Glee kids relent and start talking to her again (her improved attitude contributes considerably) – with the exception of Finn and Kurt (for obvious reasons), and Santana (who clearly blames Rachel for the accident, although she's stopped saying it).

She tries not to let it get to her. Her future is waiting for her in New York, and it's just a matter of time.

* * *

She's taken to bringing little things for Quinn each time she visits; partly because the sight of the barren nightstand depresses Rachel, but mostly because she can't imagine what it's like being confined to a bed without anything to do. It starts with books from her own shelves, and progresses to (after gaining the trust of Judy Fabray) things from Quinn's room.

The change starts small. 

Quinn lights up when her beloved dog-eared collection of books begins the migration to her bedside table, some of which Rachel remembers seeing Quinn read during Glee. Conversations extend beyond patient answers to Rachel's questions, growing into discussions.

Rachel spends the rest of the day with a spring in her step when Quinn greets her with a smile, and actually sounds sad to say goodbye.

* * *

 

Rachel doesn't help Quinn move back home after she was discharged, but she goes over later that afternoon.

Santana opens the door a fraction, scowling when she sees who it is. "What are you doing here, Berry?"

Rachel tries not to falter. "I'm here to see Quinn."

"Yeah, you think Quinn wants to see you?"

"Santana!" Brittany appears behind Santana's shoulder, poking it with a finger. "Quinn says to be nice and let Rachel in, otherwise she'll run you over with her wheelchair once it gets here. Hi, Rachel."

Rachel smiles weakly. "Hello, Brittany."

Santana grumbles but makes a big show of grudgingly opening the door wide for Rachel. She follows them into the house and down the corridor.

It occurs to Rachel that this is the first time she has stepped into the Fabray house. There is the evidence of construction work everywhere inside; she notes the addition of wheelchair-friendly amenities, the smell of wood and paint still strong.

"I let her in. You can drop your bitch mode now," announces Santana. "That was a low move, making Britt do your dirty work."

Quinn glares at her. She's lying in a bed, surrounded by furniture still higgledy-piggledy. The glare softens when she sees Rachel. "Hi, Rachel."

"Hi, Quinn." Her smile returns, and she lays the covered tray she was carrying on the nearest table. "I made you 'Welcome Home' cookies."

"Thanks." Both ignore the exaggerated eye rolling performance Santana is putting on in the background.

Rachel casts about for something else to say. "You didn't move everything downstairs by yourselves, did you?"

"'Course not," scoffs Santana before Quinn can respond. "Puckerman brought the guys down to help. You think Britt and I would lift a finger for Q here?"

"Actually, yes," says Rachel, smiling. "Quinn is very lucky to have friends like you." She's said the right things: Santana mutters to herself but subsides, visibly mollified. Brittany beams at her.

"I _am_ right here, you know," says Quinn.

"Yeah, we know. Pretty sure your mouth still works fine."

Quinn rolls her eyes. "Ignore her," she says to Rachel.

"Ignore who?" says Rachel sweetly, and Brittany laughs along with them. Santana's scowl deepens, but all she does is fold her arms, graciously letting herself be the butt of the joke (albeit with very little grace).

"Ha ha, yes, very funny. You've only come to deliver cookies, have you, Berry? In that case, don't let the door hit you on your way out."

"I came to see how Quinn was settling in." Rachel casts a quick sideways glance at Quinn. "If you have other plans…"

"We were only going to watch a movie," says Quinn, "you can stay if you want."

Rachel lights up. "I'd love to! That is," she amends, addressing Brittany and Santana, "if you don't mind."

"We don't," Brittany assures her eagerly. Her fingers rub up and down Santana's arm, effectively shutting down any protest the other girl might have had; Santana merely makes a noise and nods, once. Brittany immediately whips a DVD out of her bag, enlisting Santana's help in setting up the television and DVD player (which are still a random pile of electronics on the table opposite Quinn's bed). 

That leaves Rachel to keep Quinn company. She approaches Quinn's side slowly. "Hi."

"Hi, again." Quinn cocks her head to the side, looking supremely amused. "You weren't this shy before."

"Yes, well..."

"I'm still very much a captive audience, but with better food," jokes Quinn.

Rachel smiles weakly. "And a bouncer."

"Santana's more bark than bite." 

She knows this, of course, but doesn't let on. "She's a good friend."

Quinn nods. She pats the side of the bed. "Sit down. They'll hog the good places if you don't get here first." Santana flips them both the finger without turning around; both girls laugh, though Rachel's is deeply scandalised.

"Talking behind my back,  _literally_ , is rude." Santana hops onto the foot of the bed, Brittany beside her, both careful to avoid Quinn's legs. They start the movie without further ado.

* * *

The first time Rachel sees Quinn crumble a little is when she's given the choice of deferring her acceptance to Yale by a year. Physical therapy will be gruelling because she has to adapt to a completely different lifestyle while she heals, and her doctors tell her that it'll be impossible to juggle learning to live with a chair while managing her studies at an Ivy League school.

(Dr. Michaels actually suggested not going to college at all, hinting it won't be of much use to her future. He has a big nose, and Rachel wishes Finn was here to slam an elbow into it.)

Judy Fabray looks startled, but unsure; beside her, Santana looks murderous. Brittany's expression hasn't changed, but her grip on Quinn's shoulder has tightened.

Much to everyone's surprise, Quinn proceeds to tell them to kindly get the fuck out of her room, and then calls Yale's admissions office to inform them she'll be on campus that fall, but she will now be needing wheelchair-friendly student housing – staring at Dr. Michaels the entire time. Rachel counts herself lucky to be witnessing the entire scene; her heart swells with pride when Quinn catches her staring, and smiles a little.

"That was pretty badass, Fabray," says Santana as the scandalised health professionals leave the room, Brittany cheerfully agreeing. Quinn grins at them.

"I'm so proud of you," adds Rachel quietly.

It's hard to tell if Quinn has heard her, but Rachel likes to think that her smile grew more radiant.

* * *

"Three more raises, and we can take a break."

"Fuck. Off." Sweat drips down Quinn's brow as she struggles to work her core muscles through the exercises.

The therapist (who scares Rachel a little, and whose methods are more than a little reminiscent of Sue Sylvester), looks unimpressed. "If you have energy to cuss me out, that's energy you're not putting into this. I think another raise – on top of the three you _still_ owe me – would be possible, don't you?"

Rachel feels bad for pestering Quinn into letting her sit in on her physical therapy session; it's clear, from the glance Quinn shoots her way, that's she's uncomfortable with the loss of control of the situation, and in front of her. She wonders if she should make her excuses and leave; but then Quinn grits her teeth, and hauls her upper body up and back, four more times. The therapist grunts approvingly.

"Take five. Drink more water, you're starting to look like a raisin."

Rachel hurries over to bring a water bottle and towel to Quinn. "You're amazing," she tells Quinn, who manages to shake her head in between gulps of water.

"I'm exhausted."

"Still amazing." Rachel deflates a little when Quinn doesn't acknowledge the compliment. "I – if you're uncomfortable with my being here, Quinn, I could leave. I don't mind."

"No, stay," says Quinn. It's hard to tell if she's embarrassed or awkward, since her face is flushed from the exercise. "I didn't mean… sorry. Still a work in progress."

"It's okay. I understand completely," Rachel tells her. She fetches Quinn a fresh towel. "Let me know if you need anything else? Otherwise, I will be right _here_ ," she pulls her folding chair closer, "sitting in this chair, making no noise, and pretending I'm not watching you."

"Not there."

Rachel blinks. "Would you like to suggest a preferred location for me?"

"No, I meant – the quote. It ends 'pretending that I'm not there'."

She beams at Quinn. "Well, it doesn't quite fit our current situations, so I took artistic license with the quote. Don't think you've gotten away without me questioning you on our newfound shared ability to quote Harry Potter; a thorough interrogation is to follow later, just so you know."

Quinn gives her a quick smile, and then just as she opens her mouth to say something further, the moment is interrupted when the therapist looks over and says: "I hate to interrupt your conversation when it clearly looks like it's doing wonders for your temperament, Miss Fabray, but you and I still have unfinished business."

Quinn turns scarlet. "I guess I should go," she mutters.

"I guess you should," agrees Rachel.

* * *

She's in the Lima Bean, going over her paperwork for the move to New York (as well as some discreet research on Yale and their policies on handicapable students), when someone clears her throat in front of her.

"Oh," says Rachel, looking up, "hi, Kurt. I'm sorry; have I inadvertently taken your place?"

"No. I was passing by, and… I was hoping if we could talk."

"Sure." She pushes everything to one side. Kurt has a coffee in his hand already as he takes the chair across from her. "What is it regarding?"

"I'm sorry."

Rachel blinks. "What for?"

"I said some things I'm not proud of, and I treated you horribly." He shifts in his seat, clearly not accustomed to apologising. "I was angry, and hurt, but that's not really an excuse for the way I've acted towards you, and I'm sorry for that."

"Kurt," she says, placing her hand over his, "it's fine. I understand where you were coming from, and you were just being protective of Finn. Your reaction was completely justified."

"That well may be, but you're still my best friend." Kurt smiles a little. "You didn't deserve that from me. You've been a good friend to Quinn – even before the accident – and to all of us. At the very least, you came to your senses about marrying Finn."

Rachel sighs. "I don't think I'll ever forgive myself for that. I've been so blind to all the warning signs, and I ruined everything I had with him."

He glances at her. "Rachel?"

"... not right now. Later?"

"... Alright."

She forces a smile. "I'll forgive you for chewing me out if you'll forgive me for being an obstinate, hard headed moron," says Rachel, "and then once that's done, you can help me read up about Yale's barrier-free amenities."

Kurt smiles. "Okay."

* * *

"Why did you break up with Finn?"

"Well – um," says Rachel. "I _did_ say you could ask, didn't I? In a nutshell… you were right. All of you. We were rushing into something bigger than we'd realised, and by the time I realised it was a mistake, I'd destroyed our relationship. We love each other, there's no doubt about that, but – there was no way we could have recovered from something like that, and we – _I_ had to break his heart."

"Oh."

"Yeah." She sort of hates that her older, more mature self _knows_ that it will all work out in the long-run, because it really hurts _now_ , and besides, there is no _long-run_ because none of it is real.

Quinn's hand on her arm, though, feels very real. "I'm sorry."

"I think Finn deserves your sympathy more," she says with a little laugh, patting Quinn's hand.

"Yes, but it certainly wasn't easy for you as well."

She shrugs. "Everything is a big deal to me – comes with the territory when one is destined for stardom," says Rachel, only being partially serious. "And I  _am_ a teenager, after all, and he's my –  _was –_ my first love."

Quinn rolls her eyes, but the moment's passed. They go back to the movie they were watching without further talk until Jude Law does something stupid onscreen and both girls explode indignantly. 

* * *

She gets Metro passes in this life too, but this time, Rachel clutches the envelope to her chest and vows not to waste this precious gift. She bends down to press her lips to Quinn's cheek and promise they'll keep in touch.

"Yeah, you'd better, Berry," jokes Quinn, "I spent a small fortune on these." The blush that lingers on her face, however, is evidence that she was more touched than she lets on.

Rachel pulls out copies of Yale's and NYADA's semester schedule and the colour drains from Quinn's face.

* * *

Finn _doesn't_ drop her at the station this time, of course; in fact, Finn is nowhere in the vicinity when the members of Glee club gather outside Quinn's house to see them off. Rachel's insistent on accompanying Quinn to New Haven to get her settled in, and has made all the flight arrangements (with Judy Fabray's credit card and complicity, no less).

Quinn is stiff in her chair, discomfited by all the fuss. "You really didn't have to go to all that trouble, Rachel," she mutters as the smaller girl pushes the wheelchair across the tarmac to the waiting plane. "It would have been cheaper to drive, and I'd be fine, we could have taken breaks more frequently."

Rachel shakes her head. "Frequent breaks or no, the drive would be taxing for both you and your mom. Flying is worth the slight inconvenience of traveling to and from the airport." She accepts the flight steward's help in collapsing Quinn's chair with a nod and smile, and looks on, vigilantly, as he tucks it away.

Quinn fidgets as the plane begins taxiing. Rachel turns worried eyes on her.

"I'm fine," Quinn says in answer to the unspoken question. "I'm just… this is only the second time I've ever been on a plane, and I…"

"Oh."

"I'm okay," adds Quinn with a pinched smile.

"Okay," echoes Rachel. "Okay is good." She wonders if she'll be overstepping their friendship if she were to hold Quinn's hand; Rachel desperately wants to, but she's terrified of doing something that will spook Quinn. She compromises by leaving her hand open on the armrest separating them, so that Quinn can just move her fingers a fraction to brush against Rachel's.

The plane takes off. Rachel can see the muscles of Quinn's throat work, and then slowly – her hand finds Rachel's, and holds on tight.

* * *

Rachel knows she's being overprotective, even for her usual standards, when she terrifies the poor student guide showing them around Yale, asking detailed question after detailed question about the wheelchair-friendly amenities she read about.

"I think you made the poor boy uncomfortable," comments Judy lightly after the tour is over and the guide's ended the tour in Quinn's room – or more accurately, brought them to Quinn's room, stammered his goodbyes, and scuttled away in terror. 

Quinn snorts. "Uncomfortable is an understatement, Mom, but this was nothing. You should've seen Rachel in our sophomore year." She laughs when Rachel hisses her name in mortification. "She can be scarily intense sometimes." Rachel huffed for a moment, and then excused herself to the restroom ("It's also an ideal opportunity for me to see if the facilities are up to ADA standards," she adds, hiding a grin when she sees Quinn looking like she is about to _die_ ).

"I think it's sweet that she cares a lot about your welfare, dear." Judy starts unpacking one of the cases they've brought with them – Puck is driving down from Lima with the rest of Quinn's things, scheduled to arrive the next day. "You'll be an awfully long way from home, and it's nice to have someone else looking out for you."

"Mom..."

Judy chuckles. "I'll be fine, dear. Children leave the nest eventually – it's not like I didn't go through it all with your sister." Her expression softens when she turns to looks at Quinn. "Although not a day has passed when I wish I hadn't let you leave so early."

If Quinn has anything further to say, it's forgotten when a cheerful young woman hops in on crutches, introducing herself as Jackie, _the other occupant of the room,_ and _you must be Quinn Fabray, you're a lot more gorgeous than I was expecting._ Rachel follows, looking bewildered by this sudden addition of life and energy to the room. Quinn looks overwhelmed, and Rachel has to hold herself back from jumping in – she's not Quinn's _mother_ , for goodness' sake, and Judy looks perfectly happy to stand back and watch Quinn interact with her new roommate.

But eventually the tension bleeds from Quinn's posture as she chats with Jackie, and Rachel relaxes as well. She occupies herself with running through her to-do list mentally.

* * *

"I'll miss you," says Rachel.

"We'll be seeing each other soon, won't we? It's impossible to forget your next visit." Quinn nods at the large calendar Rachel gave her as a dorm-warming gift (with photos of Yale; she may be single-minded but she's not insane), and Rachel blushes.

"Oh. Yes."

Jackie 'aww's at the calendar, waving a cheerful goodbye to Rachel and Judy. Sitting Indian-style on her bed, it's plain to see that her right leg is missing from the knee down, the prosthetic leaning against her desk alongside her crutches.

They've arranged for Judy to stay with Quinn for the rest of the day, and then check into a hotel at night. Puck will pick Judy up for the drive back to Lima (Rachel wonders how Puck agreed to that plan, as it'll be the first time he's seeing Quinn's mom since Beth was born). Rachel will be breaking in her Metro pass, catching a train to New York and checking into her own dorm. Her dads have already texted her to say they'll be meeting her outside the dorm with her things.

She understands that Quinn and her mom are a lot closer now, but Rachel can't help but wish that she was the one staying.

* * *

Rachel keeps up a constant Twitter-like feed of her progress from leaving her dorm all the way to the minute she disembarks from her train. They've settled on meeting in front of the main ticket office, but Quinn is nowhere in sight when Rachel sets her carry-on on the ground.

She takes one deep breath, then another. It's ridiculous and yet so tempting for her to start her calming breathing exercises because she's so nervous, and she's only been in New Haven for 15 minutes.

"Hi, Rachel."

"Quinn," she beams, going to hug her friend. "Oh, hello," says Rachel to the young man pushing Quinn's chair.

"Rachel, this is Nate. Nate, this is Rachel Berry, my friend from high school." She lets go of Quinn so she can shake his hand. "Nate shares 8AM hell, AKA  _Writing for the Stage_ classes, with me."

"Oh, so _this_ is the famous Rachel," enthuses Nate. "It's so nice to finally meet you."

"Likewise." She isn't sure what Quinn has been saying about her that deserves such a mention (and judging from the hot blush staining Quinn's cheeks, _she_ isn't sure either) but she's heard Quinn talk about Nate a few times.

"Shall we go?" asks Quinn a little desperately. Nate winks at Rachel, and she clues in immediately; Quinn's _nervous_. He's here to help her make sure Rachel enjoys herself. Rachel nods to let Nate know she's gotten it, and then lifts her bag on her shoulder ("Nate, help her with her bag, for god's sake!").

Nate gallantly swings her bag onto his own shoulder (with ease, notes Rachel grudgingly) and directs them to the compact Japanese car at the far end of the lot. "We're not that far from the dorms, but Quinn insisted you be conveyed to your lodgings in comfort," he says, grinning. Quinn makes an exasperated noise and twists in her seat to slap his arm.

"Ow!"

"I regret bringing you already." She turns to Rachel. "Ignore him."

"Ignore who?" replies Rachel, and grins back at Quinn.

"Oh, inside jokes. I get it." Nate sticks his tongue out at them both as he unlocks his car. He leaves Quinn outside the passenger door and goes to open the boot.

"Uh…" says Rachel, then cuts herself off as Quinn opens the door, lifts herself into the car seat, arranges her legs, and folds up her chair – just as Nate returns to tuck the chair into the back seat. "Wow. That's impressive, Quinn."

"Jackie taught me," says Quinn smugly. "It's about the same as the bed transfer, but with less room."

That sparks a lively conversation between Quinn and Nate about public amenities in barrier-free living. Rachel spends the car ride sitting in the middle of the backseat sandwiched between Quinn's chair and her own bag, watching them with fascination.

The way Quinn shakes her head vehemently when disagreeing on a point, then plunges into the argument… she's missed that part of Quinn, the girl that used to stride through the halls of McKinley like she owned them.

But she realises now that she never left.

* * *

They go out to dinner (or rather, Nate drives them) at a small cafe just outside Yale's main campus. He drops them off, saying something about having to meet someone at the library, and promises to deliver Rachel's bag safely to Quinn's room on his way back.

Rachel doesn't say anything; she trusts Quinn's friends.

Whatever lingering concern quickly vanishes when they are seated. Rachel oohs and aahs over the massive range of vegan and vegetarian options on the menu (which _isn't_ restricted to salads).

"Sadly, due to budget constraints, I'm no longer vegan," says Rachel. At this point in her experience, she's much less bothered about it, but it's still difficult to admit.

Quinn doesn't falter; just smiles, nods, and points to an item on the menu. "Then I guess you wouldn't mind trying their eggplant parmesan with real cheese? I would give up bacon for it, I swear."

"You, give up bacon?" laughs Rachel. "It must be pretty good, then. I've got to try it."

"Great." Quinn gamely orders a quinoa tofu tabbouleh, staring back at Rachel when the waiter leaves. "What? I've had plenty of opportunities to try food that isn't Breadstix, served on white bread, or greasy diner fare since coming here, and… it's not that bad."

"Quinn Fabray, formerly carnivorous, eating vegan tabbouleh," says Rachel, shaking her head, laughing when Quinn playfully tosses a napkin at her.

* * *

Nate texts Quinn to say he's been invited out for early drinks, and urges them to go on with the rest of their night without him. Rachel couldn't care less, frankly; although Nate is nice, she came for Quinn, and Quinn alone.

Saturday morning they have breakfast on campus, sandwiched between a tour. Lunch is a wrap to go while they explore downtown's shops and sights. Dinner is (vegetarian) pizza after a concert in the park, and then _The Sound of Music_ in a small theater.

It's the best day of Rachel's life, because everything has been catered to her.

Nate shows up mainly to ferry them around, but never stays, citing all sorts of excuses to take his leave.

* * *

Quinn won't allow Rachel to take the couch (because even if the facilities for the rooms are better than normal, couches are couches) and so Rachel finds herself sharing Quinn's spacious twin bed. Very much like another time in a lifetime long ago, Rachel finds herself lying awake contemplating Quinn Fabray long after they've said their goodnights. This time, however, she isn't conflicted about what she feels for the sleeping girl across from her.

It's _exhilarating_ , in a word. She's had a lifetime to process her feelings for Quinn, and then now she's been given another chance, another _lifetime_ , to act on them. It matters little that she doesn't know if this Quinn is able to return them.

Quinn sighs in her sleep. Rachel changes her mind; it doesn't matter at all, so long as she has Quinn in some capacity.

* * *

She planned to take the late Sunday afternoon train back to New York so Quinn can take her for a lazy brunch and they make their own way to the station (Nate had expressly warned them against waking him before noon on Sundays). Jackie comes to see her off at the station, along with a very rumpled Nate.

"Thank you for the wonderful time, Quinn," says Rachel, hugging her friend tightly, wishing she didn't have to go. "I believe that this has been the best weekend of my life. You've set quite a high bar for New York, but I'll endeavour to meet your standard."

"So dramatic," teases Quinn. "But I'm glad you enjoyed it."

She hugs Nate goodbye. "I know Quinn either bribed or coerced you into helping," she whispers in his ear, "so thank you for everything."

"Coerced," he whispers back, grinning when they part. "She can be very convincing. Take care of yourself, Rachel."

"You too."

* * *

Rachel doesn't sleep well for the week leading up to Quinn's first visit to New York. "You'll be fine on your own?" she asks over Skype. "I could go over there to fetch you. I've got the pass, it wouldn't cost a thing."

Even blurred around the edges, Quinn is clearly exasperated. "Hello to you too, Rachel."

Rachel still has the good grace to be embarrassed. "Hi. Sorry."

"I'll be fine, Rachel. I'm not a complete invalid." She pauses, attention occupied by something behind her. "By the way, Jackie says hi."

She doesn't even break stride. "Hi, Jackie. But seriously, Quinn, I'm not belittling your capableness, but I had a lot of problems navigating the trip, and I don't want you being inconvenienced or held up in any way."

"Just because I'm in a wheelchair, it doesn't mean I'm any less able to manage myself, if that's what you're implying." Even over the Skype connection, the coldness of Quinn's tone is unmistakable.

Rachel bites her lower lip. "I know. I'm sorry, I didn't mean that."

"You did." The words are quiet and without malice, and yet Rachel flinches.

"I'm sorry."

Quinn breathes in and out. "I have to go."

"... Of course. I'll call you later."

* * *

She takes out her frustrations and anger on herself. Rachel books a dance studio at NYADA and puts herself through Cassandra July's exercises in increasingly punishing paces, calling it a day when she almost passes out due to dehydration.

Quinn was right. She's overprotective, almost smothering, and she has no right to be behaving like this _here_. It's hard, having to pretend one-and-a-half lifetimes never happened, and that this Quinn isn't her Quinn(s). It's harder, treading new and uncharted territory with a battered Quinn, especially when this Quinn was never _hers_ to begin with.

Rachel wonders what possessed her to put herself through this. She should have wished for something else; a million bucks, an autographed poster of Barbra Streisand, _anything_.

She empties her water bottle and goes in search of a water cooler to refill it. When she gets back, her phone is practically ringing off the hook, but the caller hangs up while she's dashing for it. She's missed four calls from Quinn. It rings again while her thumb is hovering over the call button.

"... Hello?"

"Rachel, I'm sorry."

"No, _I'm_ sorry. You're right; I was overstepping my boundaries and belittling you. We may be friends, but that doesn't give me any right to be dictating what you should and shouldn't do. You certainly would understand your own capabilities better than I can, and I'm sorry that it seemed like I didn't trust your judgement, because I _do_ , and – "

"Rachel," interrupts Quinn sharply. "I'm sorry for interrupting you, but I know you well enough to guess that it would've been a while before you're gonna let me get in a word."

Rachel laughs softly. "More or less."

"Right. So… I'm sorry I was so short with you earlier. Not a word," warns Quinn.

"My lips are sealed."

"Yes, you were being smothering and overprotective, but you weren't being condescending or mean. You only had my wellbeing in mind."

"Intentionally."

"Intentionally," repeats Quinn.

"Yes, but – "

"Rachel."

"Sorry. Please continue."

"No matter what I'm feeling, I shouldn't be taking out my frustrations out on you," says Quinn softly. "I guess it's still a work in progress."

"May I speak now?"

Quinn laughs. "Yeah."

"Quinn, I really do appreciate your apology – even if I think it's a bit unnecessary – because I was completely overreacting. I'm sorry. I never meant to imply that you're any less functional and capable than you are, because you're the strongest person I know, and if anything, you're better at managing yourself than _I_ am, and furthermore I wouldn't know exactly what you go through on a daily basis, so it was foolish of me to speak so condescendingly."

"Okay, I think I was only able to catch all that through experience with your apology monologues, but I accept your apology," says Quinn warmly, and Rachel is certain she is about to laugh.

"Thank you, Quinn."

"So I'll see you this Friday afternoon at Grand Central, okay?"

"Sure. Thanks for calling."

* * *

She knows she shouldn'be worrying when Quinn's train pulls in, and Quinn herself is nowhere in sight after most of the passengers have disembarked. Rachel knows there are extra procedures to follow – from her extensive Internet research – and it certainly doesn't mean that Quinn's been abducted or lost.

But even then the relief that fills her when Quinn rolls into view, pushed by a station attendant, is overwhelming.

"Hi," says Quinn, beaming.

"Hi, Quinn." She practically flings her arms around Quinn's neck, inhaling the scent of her hair. "I'm so glad you're here."

"I'm glad to see you too." Already her friend is graciously thanking the attendant and his colleague (who has brought Quinn's luggage), promising them generous tips before telling them to follow her to the cab queue, snapping out, "Taxi!" to the first yellow car in line ("I've been practicing how to hail a cab like a real New Yorker").

Rachel continually shoots furtive glances at Quinn the entire time, but the blonde girl stays silent as Rachel instructs the driver to drive safely and slowly, promising him a bigger tip if he'll help carry Quinn's things up to the apartment. (Luckily the driver, who is a burly turbaned Sikh man, jovially waves away the extra money and calls Rachel a "good girl" for taking such good care of her friend.)

* * *

"Well, we're here." Rachel carefully holds the door of the loft open, nodding for Quinn to go in. "Make yourself at home."

As she wrestles Quinn's baggage inside, she sees Quinn rolling around, inspecting the curtain partitions, the tiny kitchen, the living room. "I know it's a little sparse," says Rachel anxiously, "but it's all we can afford between Kurt and myself, and we had to get the furnishings from the thrift shop…"

"It's amazing, Rachel." Quinn rolls back towards her. Her eyes are wide and sparkling with excitement, and the other girl's heart flutters. "I love it."

Rachel goes a little pink at the way Quinn is staring at her. She clears her throat and continues, "You'll be sharing my bed. I won't have you sleeping on the couch because – full disclosure – Kurt and I got it off a curb two blocks down, but we got the cushions and cover professionally cleaned."

Quinn blanches, and quickly tosses the throw pillow in her lap back. "Did you get this off the curb too?" 

"Oh, that one's fine. It's from my room in Lima." 

Quinn relaxes. She picks it back up, running her fingers over the embroidered pattern. "It's nice."

"Thanks."

Quinn clears her throat to dispel the awkward silence. "So, what's next?"

"Dinner." Rachel beams as she goes to retrieve their coats from the chair she'd tossed them over ten minutes ago.

* * *

She'd spared no effort to find this place; a hole-in-the-wall diner with vegan-friendly dishes that she'd found in her past life, in the early days of her marriage to Finn.

Its wheelchair ramp is a bonus, one which has Quinn's eyes light up. "You're really making me feel pretty darn special, you know that?" she teases as Rachel insists on pushing her up the ramp "because she shouldn't get sweaty before a nice dinner". "None of the guys I've ever dated went to such lengths for me."

"They should have," says Rachel tartly. "It's really basic courtesy to treat the other party well when you're the one doing the asking out. Not to mention, you went out of your way to ensure I enjoyed my first visit to New Haven, so it only stands to reason that I do the same for you."

"Not everyone has the same high standards of chivalry that you do, Berry – as well as the same vocabulary." Quinn adds the last with a small grin.

Rachel turns pink with mingled embarrassment and pleasure, ducking her head in a futile attempt to hide it. "I'm glad you think so. Two, please, under Streisand." The last is said to the host, who nods and leads the way to their table.

"Streisand?"

"I'm practicing for my future," whispers Rachel once the waiter takes their orders and leaves. "When I'm famous I'll have to make reservations under false names; otherwise the paparazzi will be hounding my every move."

"And Streisand is an excellent choice for someone staying incognito," says Quinn dryly.

Rachel huffs. "You may laugh now, but you'll see if you'll still find it funny when I'm a multiple Tony winner and you're an award-winning writer, and we have a string of cameras following us on our dinner dates."

"Dates?"

"Well – in the traditional sense of two people going out for a meal together," explains Rachel hurriedly.

Quinn's lips quirked up into a smile – which, coupled with the shy downturn of her gaze, creates an effect that has Rachel blushing harder. "Date sounds nice," she murmurs, just as the waiter returns with their appetizers, ending that particular line of conversation.

Rachel sends a quick glare at the man's retreating back.

* * *

Rachel knows Quinn's social schedule by heart.

Mondays are for Santana; she shoos Rachel and Kurt away from the living room and gets comfortable with her laptop. It usually becomes a three-way conversation if Brittany gets out of Cheerios practice early, and it's not uncommon for Rachel to come back from classes and be asked to wave at the tiny camera on Santana's laptop.

Tuesdays are when she's talking to Mercedes. Rachel knows not to call her then, because their conversations can easily extend for hours.

Quinn chats with Blaine every second Wednesday or so, depending on whether their schedules sync up, and who's finished reading the latest Rainbow Rowell first. Rachel finds it cute that they're still friends, and cuter still that their shared interests range all the way from chicklit novels to Motown.

If Kurt calls, it tends to be a Thursday because that's when he doesn't have to go into the diner or Vogue, and Quinn ends classes early. Rachel learned sometime in the middle of her last life that they're surprisingly good friends outside of Glee, and that he (through Mercedes) was there for her when she was pregnant.

But Fridays are their days. Fridays are when Rachel gives Cassandra July the heartiest 'fuck you' she can manage through dance, and then races out the door, barely stopping to pick up a wheatgerm bagel and caramel latte on the way home. Fridays are when Quinn leaves the lecture hall half an hour early (no one dares to stop her), so she can be in her room when Rachel logs on.

"Hey," says Rachel breathlessly.

"Hi." Quinn looks a little fuzzy around the edges, but it's much better than just hearing her voice on the phone – and they had to cut down on _that_ , because both their phone bills were getting terrifying. "You look… windswept."

"Quinn!" It wasn't her fault the weather decided to turn from mild to hurricane on a dime, and her appearance had suffered accordingly. Rachel had been in such a rush to log on that she hadn't bothered to look in the mirror. "I'll admit that the earlier weather hasn't been the most conducive, but you can hardly blame me for not having the time to pay attention to my appearance."

"I'm kidding. You look nice."

She flushes with pleasure. "You must say that to everyone."

"Only the ones whom I like."

"Again, you must say that to everyone," says Rachel, and then changes the subject to upcoming deadlines.

* * *

Rachel is the one to buy new Metro passes when theirs expire ("It's only fair since you bought them for us last time, and I still greatly appreciate that gesture because the price of these things is unbelievable"), and she proudly frames the tattered and well-worn tickets to hang on her wall. Quinn thinks she's crazy.

She loves how Quinn fits into her life so naturally. The collage of photos that decorates her wall boasts a galaxy of Quinn in a constellation of milestones; Quinn at her 21st birthday party, Quinn, Santana, and Brittany attending her senior year production of _Anastasia_ (she played Anastasia, of course). Quinn giving a speech at the American Disability Association, Quinn, Rachel, Jackie, and Santana at Quinn's sorority Halloween party. Quinn winning an award for creative writing in her junior year.

Quinn's star shines so brightly, Rachel can't help to smile at the thought of her. 

"Ugh," remarks Santana as she passes by on her way to the kitchen, "you've got it bad, Midget."

"Got what?" Rachel tears her attention from texting Quinn to stare at Santana.

"The hots. The butterflies. The wet panties."

Rachel scowls. "You're disgusting."

"No, I'm honest. Your crush is so massive that it's stopped being funny and is just pathetic. Go talk to him."

Her heart skips a beat. "I don't know what you're talking about," insists Rachel, trying to keep the relief off her face.

"Um, hello. No one eyesexes their phone like you're doing – and for the record, it is so fucking creepy. Hurry up and tell him how you feel so you can work all that excess energy off getting your sexy on."

Quinn chooses that moment to respond. Rachel grins at her phone, completely ignoring Santana, who just groans and walks away.

* * *

The long-awaited day comes; after four years of traveling, late nights, endless cups of coffee. Four years of yearning. Quinn's due to graduate _summa cum laude_ with a degree in Dramaturgy and Dramatic Criticism.

(Rachel juggled _Funny Girl_ with school, but it means she has to spend an extra semester earning her degree – _cum laude_ , thank you very much – which is completely okay with her.)

Graduations are times of celebration, of closing chapters to move on to bigger and brighter things. To her, it also means revelations.

She's sitting in her designated seat, fidgeting with the hem of the navy dress she picked for the occasion. The bouquet of specially-selected white gardenias sits in her lap, bound with green ribbon. For the thousandth time that afternoon, Rachel contemplates chickening out and tossing the bouquet.

On her left, Santana eyes the bouquet. Her gaze flicks upward. "Don't, please," says Rachel; Santana's expression changes into a pout.

"Fine. I wasn't going to ask, anyway; I was only gonna mention that Quinn's still got a corsage from high school stuffed in a drawer somewhere. Guess which one."

"Oh." Her heart soars.

"Yeah, _oh_. Don't mess it up, Berry," Santana smirks, returning her attention to the front.

(The thousandth-and-first time: probably a bad idea, putting Quinn on the spot like this, but she can't think of another occasion to tell her. Now or never, right? _Carpe diem_ , and all that.)

Rachel only starts to smile when she sees the sea of black stream in, topped off with mortarboards, and doesn't stop until it's all over. She pushes her way through the graduates until she finds Quinn.

"Congratulations," she breathes, kissing Quinn's cheek, grinning when arms encircle her shoulders.

"Thanks for coming." Quinn beams wider when she spots the flowers Rachel is holding behind her back. "You shouldn't have – " she starts, and then stops abruptly when she notices. "... Rachel, why didn't you tell me?"

Rachel looks rueful. "There was never a good time."

"All these years, we could've…" It's Quinn's turn to bite her lip.

"Could have what?"

"Been doing this," she murmurs. Quinn tugs on Rachel's elbows, practically urging her to climb into her lap, as she kisses her. Cheers erupt around them but Rachel barely hears them as she runs her fingers through messy blonde hair and around the back of Quinn's neck.

"Wow."

Quinn smiles, crooked and overflowing with happiness. "Yeah. Wow."

"So, I guess this is…"

"What is?"

Rachel smooths back her hair, suddenly bashful. "This – us."

"Of all the times you could be tongue-tied," laughs Quinn. Her hands have yet to leave Rachel's waist; her thumbs start rubbing circles that drive Rachel to distraction. "This us?"

"Don't make fun of me. This is hard enough as it is." One of her hands moves to cup Quinn's cheek. "I was hoping you would – go out with me. Tonight. On a proper _date_ date, where I fully intend to woo you."

One of Quinn's eyebrows quirk up. "Woo me? That sounds like something you would want me to do for you, not the other way round. We'll talk more tonight, _in private_ ," she adds, catching the grins on Santana and Kurt's faces.

"Oh please, don't stop on our behalf," says Kurt.

"No, _do_ stop," says Santana, and grins again when Kurt glares at her. "What? This is the gayest thing I've ever seen, and I live with Lady Hummel and Streisand. Oh, and now Q's going to be a fixture; I'm living in the gayest apartment in New York. Wanky."

"Shut up, Santana."

* * *

"I'm sorry for embarrassing you today," says Rachel.

"You didn't embarrass me," frowns Quinn. "Caught a little off guard, yes." The last is muttered to herself, but Rachel is fortunate enough to be blessed with bat hearing.

"Would this have anything to do with the fact you'd already made dinner reservations for tonight?"

Quinn smiles sheepishly. "You don't have a monopoly on grand romantic gestures the last time I checked, Rachel. I was planning on asking you if you wanted to – go out with me."

"Come again?" Rachel can't help the smile that starts, and only grows with Quinn's consternation.

"I've had… _feelings_ , for you, as more than a friend, for a while now – which you obviously, uh, reciprocated, this afternoon. And – graduations are new beginnings, right, and you love grand romantic gestures, so I had this whole plan to ask you, and..." She trails off, making a vague gesture.

Rachel hasn't been this overwhelmed, touched, excited, _overjoyed_ in all her lifetimes. There's so many things in that sentence that could be solely responsible; Quinn likes her, like _likes_ her, Quinn was planning along the same lines, _Quinn_. "Ask me what, Quinn?"

"You really want me to say it, don't you?" Quinn says with just a touch of exasperation, but follows it with a wide smile. She slips her hand into Rachel's, lying on the table. "I like you, Rachel. Go out with me."

She beams. Interlacing their fingers, Rachel says, "Yes," and gives Quinn's hand a squeeze.

* * *

"You look amazing," offers Quinn. The Glee club members that were able to attend Rachel's opening night (a surprising number, which includes Finn) agree. Rachel hugs each and every one, thanking them for taking the time to come and see her.

Quinn (who she'll be going home to later tonight) has on a simple black dress that she's never seen before, and a massive congratulatory bouquet in her lap. She wonders where her girlfriend found the time from a budding career as a writer and columnist to sneak out for shopping.

"Thank you." She bends to take the bouquet, kissing Quinn a little too long to be chaste. Puck smirks at them both when she pulls away; Rachel's ears burn a little but she maintains her composure – and flips him off. He just laughs at her.

Finn watches them all with a slightly wistful expression. She averts her gaze when he looks her way; she has yet to exchange more than a few perfunctory greetings with him, and it's easily been four years since the last time they spoke.

Rachel's not ashamed. She's just nervous, and afraid; but as she looks down at the woman who's holding her hand, she feels the tension slowly bleeding away.

* * *

Finn catches her as they're saying their goodbyes. "She makes you happy," he says, smiling sadly.

"She does," agrees Rachel. She can't help the silly grin that blossoms immediately over her face when she thinks about Quinn. "Finn, I…"

"It's fine. Things happen without us wanting them to, but they happen for the best, don't they?"

"I'm sorry. You'll always be one of my best friends."

"Yeah." He grunts, shifting his weight, picking at his blazer. "... I can't be friends with you yet. I'm still not over you, but – I will be. Give me time, 'kay?"

"Of course. As much as you need." She pauses, arms held at her sides. "Would it be okay if I hugged you?"

Finn shrugs. "Nah. I can do hugs." He lets her throw her arms around his neck; Finn smells of Axe and soap, the combination achingly familiar. As he lets go, he says: "You were great onstage tonight. I'm glad that your dreams came true."

"I hope yours will too," she replies. Rachel smiles up at him.

* * *

This time around, Rachel's career takes off without a hitch. Other-Quinn was right; she was born for the stage, and not being able to sing for an audience took away a bigger part of her than she thought possible. With the benefit of prior experience, Rachel knows what to do, and at what time, and quickly gains a reputation for being one of the most talented and promising young actresses of her generation. She's even hailed as the next Barbra when she wins her Tony and Emmy in quick succession before she's twenty-nine.

All of it pales in comparison to her favourite role of being up-and-coming novelist Quinn Fabray's _wife_ – as of three hours ago. She still can't stop fingering the brand-new wedding band. "Stop toying with that," laughs Quinn, "and let me carry you over the threshold." She holds out her hand for Rachel's.

She arranges herself on Quinn's lap, legs dangling off the side, both arms around Quinn's neck. "Ready when you are," she giggles, kissing the tip of her wife's nose, squealing a little when Quinn surges forward.

"You're heavy," grunts Quinn, making an 'oof' noise when Rachel tightens her hold in retaliation.

"Someone's not getting laid tonight."

"Rachel!"

"What? You aren't supposed to be saying these things to your _wife_."

"Mmhm. I was actually scandalised by your crude language, but I like the sound of that." Quinn kisses the side of her face, just below her ear; Rachel draws a sharp breath. "Wife."

"Mrs. Rachel Fabray."

"So old fashioned."

"I planned on keeping Rachel Berry as my stage name," breathes Rachel. She's finding it incredibly difficult to concentrate on talking when Quinn is kissing down her neck like that. "I'm already on my way towards making it a household name."

"Figures. I shouldn't be surprised you've gotten it all planned out, probably even before our first date."

While Quinn is maneuvering herself onto their bed, Rachel takes the time to admire the play of muscles in Quinn's upper arms as she lifts herself out of the chair. "I did, until someone spoilt my plans by asking me out first. You should be impressed that I had a contingency plan."

"I _am_ impressed, although I am now also insanely curious as to what this contingency plan entails."

"Mostly it was me planning on having my wicked way with you. I mean, have you seen my wife?"

"Have you seen _mine_?" counters Quinn, and Rachel dissolves into a fit of giggles.

"You have such a way with words, Quinn Fabray. Why am I so far away from you? This is a travesty." She scoots over so she's hovering over Quinn, who laughingly tugs her closer.

* * *

Quinn has spent most of her early life plagued by insecurity; Rachel's fairly certain she has a photo of Lucy Caboosey hidden somewhere which she takes out now and then to remind herself of who she used to be.

In the early days of their careers, Rachel was still an unknown star, and no one cared to give her a second glance. Most of her castmates and crew thought that she and Quinn were pretty cute together, and the fact they'd been enemies and rivals through most of high school only endeared them further to their friends (especially the giddy romantics).

But things get a little harder now that Rachel is a fairly well-known celebrity who appears on talk shows and television.

Quinn always declines when Rachel asks her to attend events as her plus one, and Rachel has always respected Quinn's reasoning… until tonight.

"It's my first movie premiere, Quinn," she says, "and on such a momentous occasion, there's no one I want at my side more."

"I know, baby, and I'm so proud of you, but I'm just not comfortable being there." Quinn chucks her wife under the chin playfully. "Hey. You look exactly like a kicked puppy, you know?"

Rachel's pout deepens. "Yes, well, I could sit up on my hind legs and beg if you want. Please?" She flutters her eyelashes, making sad whimpering noises until Quinn giggles.

"God, you're ridiculous. I don't know why I married you."

"You married me _because_ I'm adorable and ridiculous, and you love me anyway," declares Rachel. She shifts her body until she's kneeling in front of Quinn, hands resting loosely on her wife's knees. "I just want everyone to see my beautiful wife."

Quinn looks away, the smile falling from her face. "I'm not a show pony, Rachel."

"Baby, no," says Rachel quickly, "I'm sorry. I meant that, I'm not ashamed of you."

"I've got a lot of work to do tonight," says Quinn, wheeling herself out of Rachel's reach, and away to her home office.

"Quinn…"

She follows her wife to the room, leaning in the doorway. Quinn keeps her gaze levelled at her laptop, occasionally pausing her work to jot things down in the large notepad in front of her.

Just before Rachel is about to give in and walk away, Quinn sighs. She pushes away from her desk, holding out her arms to Rachel.

"Baby, come here."

Rachel does; slowly, like a child in trouble, biting her lower lip, one hand picking at the hem of her shirt nervously. She lets Quinn tug her into her lap, automatically angling herself so the armrest of the chair takes her weight.

Quinn wordlessly pulls her closer, off the armrest and into her body.

"I'm sorry." Rachel rests her forehead against the side of Quinn's head.

Quinn shakes her head. "No, _I'm_ sorry. I shouldn't have brushed you off like that."

"I was pushing you."

"You weren't."

"Quinn…"

Quinn sighs. "Okay, so maybe you were pushing. A little." She cups Rachel's cheek, tugging her face towards herself. "Rachel, it's not that I'm not proud of you. I'm just not comfortable with the publicity and attention there."

Rachel has always appreciated her wife's honesty. She nods. "I understand. I worry, because I don't ever want you to think that I'm ashamed of being with you."

"I know."

"I love you."

Quinn smiles. "Love you, too," she says, pulling Rachel into a kiss.

* * *

It started as a silly argument about Rachel dropping the remote control on the floor and forgetting to pick it up. Normally, Rachel would have just apologised, and Quinn forgiven her; things like this happened all the time.

But it had been a hectic day at the theatre because the production was running behind time; as the leading lady, a lot of the pressure fell on Rachel's shoulders, and it showed. Quinn's first novel had been a flop. There were bills unpaid and chores undone. Rachel tore a favourite stocking, Quinn lost her key.

" _There_ it is," snaps Quinn, rolling out of her office, pointing at the space behind the couch. "Pick it up, please."

"Pick what up?"

"Are you blind? _The remote control_. It's right _there_."

Rachel grits her teeth. "Quinn, it would be exceedingly helpful if you could provide me with a more specific location of the remote instead of 'there'."

"What do you want, a map?" She doesn't wait for an answer, snorting derisively. "Here, never mind, I'll do it myself."

"And how are you going to pick it up? Do you have your grabber claw?" asks Rachel, referring to the green T-Rex-themed plastic toy Santana bought for Quinn's recent birthday. "I know you left it in the office; so much for being neat and organized… forget it, I'll pick it up."

"It's fine."

"No, it's not fine." Rachel takes a deep breath, still kneeling on the floor, the remote in her hand. For once, she's shorter than Quinn; it's almost nostalgic, having Quinn glower down at her coldly. Her gaze falls on the chair and her anger ebbs away. "... I'm sorry. We're both having bad days, we shouldn't be taking it out on each other."

Quinn, however, isn't easily mollified. "Whatever, Rachel; _this_ ," she gestures at herself, "isn't just a _bad day_."

"Baby."

"I'm tired of being useless! Relying on a – stupid children's _toy_ to pick things up from the floor." It's immediately apparent that the true cause of Quinn's anger isn't something as transient as dropped television remotes. "And you – don't think I don't notice when you look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Pity," she spits.

Rachel shakes her head. "Quinn…" She moves forward, still on her knees, and Quinn jerks backward.

"I don't want your pity. I don't want to be the poor cripple tying you down, Rachel, because you're meant for great things, and you shouldn't be stuck with me because you feel sorry for me."

There's a long silence. "... Is that really what you think? That I feel sorry for you?"

"Rachel," says Quinn, "Rachel sweetie, I didn't mean – shit." There are tears rolling down her cheeks.

"Do you really think that?" asks Rachel again, small and vulnerable.

"No, I – God, no. Never. Of course I don't. I love you."

"I love you too," says Rachel. "I love you so much, Quinn. I just wish… you'd love yourself too."

"I'm trying," answers Quinn, with a choked sob. "It's hard – that I wake up, and my legs won't do what I want them to do, and I can't look into the mirror without seeing this _cripple_ – "

"You're not a cripple, Quinn; god, I wish you'd see yourself the way everyone sees you, the way I see you." This time, Quinn lets her approach. "You're beautiful. You always have been. You're the most beautiful, intelligent, amazing woman I've ever met, and I'm the luckiest woman there is to be married to you." Rachel cups Quinn's cheek gently. "You're so much more than this chair."

Quinn returns the smile hesitantly. She lets Rachel take a hand and press it to her lips reverently.

* * *

It's not Quinn's fault that the irreparable damage to her spine also weakened her bladder. The older she gets, the more apparent the long-term effects of the accident become. The first time Quinn wets herself, she doesn't get out of bed for two days. Rachel has to call Judy (Quinn won't let her tell any of their friends how bad her condition is) to fly down and stay with them for a few days, while they adjust their daily routine to cope.

There was also some damage to her chest; as a result, she is increasingly susceptible to respiratory infections in the colder months. Rachel learns this the hard way when Quinn's cold worsens into pneumonia after a New York winter in their new (and insufficiently-insulated) apartment.

The reduced lung capacity also means she tires easily – the main reason why Rachel insisted on Quinn's working from home, though the hours that she's productive are steadily decreasing.

Quinn has a laundry list of medical problems, and so Rachel simply becomes a medical expert. She shapes her life around Quinn's. She corrals Kurt into teaching her how to cook so she can personally manage Quinn's diet. She chooses roles based on their run times so she can be free in the winter months, when Quinn needs round-the-clock care. She takes lessons in therapeutic massage so she can guide Quinn through the special stretches and massages needed to keep her limber.

Needless to say, Quinn isn't happy about it at all.

There is a snide article written about Rachel and Quinn, and how an award-winning Broadway actress shouldn't have to play nursemaid to a cripple. Rachel gets her agent to sue the hell out of the blog, but the damage is done. More spring up, each crueler than the next, insinuating Rachel is Quinn's attack dog, that Quinn's modest fame as a writer leverages off Rachel's influence.

It's bad enough that she loses out on her coveted role of Elphaba in the thirtieth anniversary revival of _Wicked_ because her closest rival insinuates that Rachel won't be able to commit to the tour. It's worse that they have to bail Santana out of the local police precinct for attacking a group of paparazzi. Granted, they _had_ interrupted their girls' night out with invasive questions; nevertheless, Rachel is aghast that the poison has seeped into so many aspects of their lives.

Quinn doesn't say anything for the rest of the night. They drop Santana off at her place (Rachel politely but firmly rejects Santana's offer to track down the offending paparazzi and 'make their lives hell', though she appreciates the sentiment) and the moment they arrive home, Quinn disappears into their room.

* * *

 

She wakes up later to find the other side of the bed empty. Rachel stretches, padding out of their room to Quinn's office. "Baby," she says, leaning against the doorway and stifling a yawn, "come back to bed."

Quinn pauses her typing. "I'll be a while, I want to wrap up this last article. Don't wait up; you have a matinee show tomorrow and you need your sleep."

Rachel doesn't say anything. She climbs into Quinn's lap – like a belligerent cat – and promptly falls asleep, her head resting on Quinn's shoulder.

The next thing she knows, her wife is kissing her forehead and saying something about "clingy nuisances" but she's smiling. "Bedtime, you needy woman."

Rachel grins back. She wraps her arms around Quinn's neck. "Let's go."

"What, are you expecting me to wheel you back as well? This chair is single-occupancy only, miss."

She likes it when Quinn jokes about her chair; it means she's in a good mood. "I'm not that heavy. You'll live."

"Says the woman who had an extra slice of forest berry cake last night."

"Hey! Desserts don't count; everyone knows that. Furthermore, I lead a very strenuous lifestyle, I'm allowed to indulge in the occasional extra caloric intake or two…"

"Mmm, so you say," teases Quinn. They've reached their room by this point in the conversation. She jams the brake and leans forward to playfully tip a giggling Rachel out onto the bed. "Last stop."

Rachel crawls under the covers, holding them open. She doesn't help Quinn get into bed (her wife doesn't like her to) but she loves to watch Quinn move; each precise movement is executed with a grace and fluidity that reminds Rachel of her cheerleading days.

Once Quinn is settled, Rachel scoots over, hauling Quinn's legs over her own, wrapping her arms around Quinn's waist. "Finally."

"Only because you made such a fuss." Quinn doesn't immediately melt into Rachel; she senses they're not done talking. Rachel waits.

"You know… they have a point," says Quinn, "you shouldn't be tied down taking care of me."

Rachel pushes herself up on her elbows so she can glare down at Quinn. "That's utter nonsense, Quinn Fabray. I'm not tied down. I'm here because I love you, _so_ much, and I want to spend the rest of my life _with_ you. Not taking care _of_ you. They implied I'm your _nanny_ , for goodness' sake."

Quinn makes shushing noises, pulling Rachel back down with her. "Okay. I know. I'm sorry, Rach. It's stupid, okay? Me being so preoccupied with that stupid article."

"It's not stupid if it's still bothering you," insists Rachel.

"It doesn't."

"Yes, it does."

"It's late," says Quinn. "Sleep. We'll talk tomorrow, okay?"

She knows a change of subject when she hears one, but she doesn't want to argue. "... Fine. Good night."

* * *

Though Quinn acts like nothing's changed, Rachel knows her well enough to see that it has. She used to be keen on going out during the weekends, eager on escaping the four walls of the apartment. But even when Rachel surprises her with two tickets to a jazz festival, Quinn shakes her head, smiling ruefully. "Sorry, but I can't. I've got a lot of work this weekend."

Rachel's face falls. "But… you've been talking about it for _months._ You even put in on our Google calendar."

"I know, but I'm busy."

"Quinn…" Rachel feels a spike of anger when she notices Quinn's eyes dart to the side. "You're not thinking of hiding in your office, are you?"

"I'm not. Of course not."

She bites back a remark that Quinn is in the habit of running away – figuratively, these days – when things get too much for her; they've been fighting too much recently, and all she wants to do is spend time with her wife. "Okay. I'm sorry."

"Sorry for?"

"Accusing you. That was… I'm sure there are better ways of communicating." She sits on the couch. "Baby… I'm just worried about you."

"There's nothing to be worried about," insists Quinn, wheeling closer so she can take Rachel's hand into her lap, her thumb rubbing the inside of her wrist. "I won't die of overwork."

"People actually do, in Japan," says Rachel seriously. "We were watching that documentary last week, remember? That guy literally keeled over at his desk and no one realised he was dead for three _days_."

Quinn finally laughs. "I'm not going to keel over. You're so dramatic."

Rachel laughs along, although she can't really hide the shiver that passes through her bones when she thinks of Quinn dead.

"Hey. You're letting your imagination run wild again. Whatever you're thinking, it probably won't happen." Quinn touches her cheek; Rachel forces a smile.

"You know me. I'm an athlete when it comes to jumping to conclusions." She scoots closer to her wife. "We can go to the jazz festival next weekend – you're lucky they cater to workaholics – and then dinner afterwards?"

"Sounds good to me," says Quinn, kissing her.

* * *

They end up not going; Quinn takes a fall at home a few days later, while Rachel is at rehearsal, her phone forgotten in the bedroom. Rachel swears her heart nearly stops when she comes home to find Quinn on the floor, pale and shaking with pain.

She's hospitalized for two weeks, her condition not improving; her doctors decide to run an array of tests.

Quinn's formerly incomplete spinal injury was worsened by the fall. She has a breakdown when she finds she's now completely incontinent. Furthermore, her wrist movements are impaired, meaning she can't work as much as she used to.

Rachel sits with her wife, holding her hand, as the doctors deliver this latest crushing news. She stops looking at them after the first few seconds, focusing instead on Quinn.

Quinn completely _shatters_. Rachel feels her own heart break when she sees the devastation in her wife's eyes. She waits until the doctors leave.

"Quinn."

Quinn doesn't seem to hear, her shoulders shaking. The grip she has on Rachel's hand is tight and painful but Rachel doesn't care, using her other hand to stroke Quinn's hair. "Quinn, sweetheart," she says, pulling Quinn's head into the crook of her neck, doing her best to bring her own tears under control.

* * *

Quinn refuses to get out of bed.

"Quinn, what's wrong?" Rachel pauses to sit on the bed, half-dressed. "Are you in pain? Can I get you anything?"

"I don't love you anymore," she says, facing away. "I want a divorce."

"Baby – "

"Go away, Manhands. The sight of you makes me sick."

"Quinn, please." There are tears running down Rachel's cheeks, even though she knows Quinn is just venting her frustration on her. "You don't mean that."

"Who are you to think I don't know what I'm saying? I'm not that far gone yet. Get out. I won't say it again." Then she is quiet, wheezing slightly to catch her breath.

"You're not getting rid of me that easily, Quinn Fabray," says Rachel, fighting to keep the hitching out of her voice. "I love you, and I'm going to be here for you for the rest of our lives."

"Or until you decide that I'm too much of a burden holding you back."

"You're not – never. Never."

"Yeah? Just wait. It's only a matter of time."

Rachel decides to go on the attack. "Don't think I don't recognise you trying to push me away, Quinn. It won't work."

"Pushing you away? Yeah, I'm pushing you away. That's typically something that happens when you hate someone, Rachel. Since the other option of running away isn't available." This is followed by a hollow laugh bordering on tears.

"I don't believe you," says Rachel, voice trembling. "Look at me when you say that you hate me."

Quinn doesn't move. "The sight of you makes me sick," she repeats steadily.

"... Okay." Rachel stands up, ducking her head to discreetly wipe the tears from her face. "I have to go anyway. Santana will be here in an hour's time. I'll be home at 7 – "

"Just go."

"... Okay." Her reply is robotic, her steps away from Quinn heavy. She knows that Quinn doesn't mean any of these cruel things but they still hurt. "I love you," she insists from the doorway, because Rachel never leaves home without saying that to her wife, no matter what.

Quinn doesn't say it back.

* * *

It takes her a while to open the door because of all the things she's juggling; by the time it swings open, Santana's already there to help. "Thanks," says Rachel, smiling gratefully at her friend.

"Anytime." They carry the bags to the kitchen. Rachel's bought a veritable feast of Chinese food; a medley of Santana's and Quinn's favourite dishes, and vegan alternatives for herself. "Thanks for the food."

"It's nothing, really. Thanks for being here today." Rachel glances over Santana's shoulder at the bedroom. Her friend catches the movement. "How is she?"

Santana sighs. "Bad. She hasn't left her bed all day, but she only just fell asleep."

"Oh. Should I…"

"No. Better let her sleep." Santana stuffs the food meant for Quinn into the fridge, rebuffing Rachel every time she tries to get up and help. Finally, she sits back down, making a noise of displeasure to find that Rachel has yet to touch her food.

"What? It would be rude of me to start eating first."

"Fine."

They eat in silence, punctuated by "Pass the serviettes" and such, until Santana leans over to stab a sesame chicken wing with her fork and says: "Quinn told me what happened this morning."

"Oh." The food she was swallowing becomes an unpleasant lump in her throat.

"Well, she didn't go into details, and she only mentioned it because I wouldn't stop giving her shit for being in a horrible mood all day." Santana's eyes bore into Rachel; she pretends to be absorbed in her chow mein. "Are you okay?"

Rachel only lays her fork down when the silence becomes unbearable. "She didn't mean any of it," says Rachel quietly. "She had an accident yesterday, and she couldn't do anything to help; you know how independent she is, and how much she hates this…"

"That doesn't excuse what she said to you," retorts Santana.

"Yes, it does. Quinn's been in so much pain, and she's hurting; we both know how she gets."

"But she knows better now. You love her, and you're doing so much for her. At the very least, you didn't deserve to have Q say horrible things she doesn't even mean."

Rachel smiles weakly. "You're a good friend, Santana."

Santana snorts, pulling her carton of fried rice closer. "I'm just saying."

"Nevertheless... thank you."

* * *

Rachel is waiting for her in their kitchen when Quinn wakes up. "Good morning, Quinn," says Rachel, brightening visibly when her wife wheels herself towards the dining table, rising from her chair to kiss her cheek. "Or afternoon, as it seems," she adds, glancing at the clock on the wall.

"Rachel," says Quinn, voice hoarse.

"I made your favourite. The doctor said you weren't supposed to have fried food but I think we can make an exception this time." She takes control of Quinn's chair to guide her towards her usual place. "Your morning dose is on the counter. The rest of your pills are in their box – I sorted them for you. I bought your favourite Chinese for you last night, but you were sleeping and Santana said we shouldn't disturb you, so you can reheat that for lunch – "

Quinn catches Rachel's wrist as she turns.

"... Quinn?"

"I'm sorry," says Quinn, "I wasn't at my best yesterday." She looks devastated, in a way Rachel hasn't seen since the last time they were in the hospital. "I didn't mean any of it... I'm so sorry, Rachel."

"Don't apologise, sweetheart." Rachel perches on the side of the chair, legs over Quinn's lap but not resting her weight there. She pushes Quinn's tousled hair from her face, kisses her forehead. "You're frowning too much," she says, rubbing her thumb across Quinn's brow.

"You're being too nice," Quinn shoots back. "I said some horrible things…"

"... and I forgive you." Rachel kisses her cheek.

"You forgive too easily."

"Because it's you." A kiss to the bridge of her nose.

"What, special dispensation because I'm Quinn Fabray?"

"Yes, because you're Quinn Fabray, my wife, my best friend, and the love of my life." Rachel's lips brush Quinn's. "Sweetheart, I married the girl who used to leave nasty comments on my MySpace videos. I think you'll find mere insults you didn't even mean beneath me."

She was regretting the words the instant they came out of her mouth, but relief floods her when Quinn chuckles. "That's true. You've got issues, Rachel."

"You're worth it," says Rachel fiercely. She kisses Quinn again, and smiles into the kiss when she feels Quinn respond. "You're worth every second of it."

Tentatively, Quinn's arms encircle her waist.

* * *

On Quinn's good days, she doesn't need to take her emergency painkillers. She smiles freely, and spends hours writing uninterrupted in her home office. She even feels up to accompanying Rachel on her chores (Rachel jokes that as a celebrity with her fair share of paparazzi, it's good to have a getaway vehicle on standby). They even host a dinner party with all their friends from high school and college in attendance. Quinn moves amongst them like the chair was never there.

But her bad days are bad. She wakes up in the middle of the night crying; choked little sounds because the pain makes it hard to breathe. Quinn has accidents and she has to wake Rachel to help her clean it up and herself. Rachel sheds tears of her own, seeing Quinn sob out of pain, frustration, and humiliation, and goes to the theatre with dark circles under her eyes even her makeup team's best efforts can't conceal.

When rehearsal stretches late one evening and Rachel rushes home to find Quinn in tears because she's been sitting in her own filth for two hours, she makes a decision.

* * *

Quinn's new motorized wheelchair emerges from the bedroom. Rachel can feel her wife's eyes on her back. "Rachel," says Quinn eventually, "why aren't you at the theatre?"

Rachel steadies herself, taking a few deep breaths and counting to five – her preferred method for calming herself down before a show. She turns around slowly, beaming at Quinn. "Good afternoon, Quinn. I made you lunch."

Obediently, Quinn's gaze drifts to the table, where a (low-sodium) bacon sandwich and walnut salad sits. "Make sure to take your anticoagulants after you've eaten; they're in the pill box on the table," continues Rachel.

"You haven't answered my question."

Rachel shakes her head. "Eat your lunch first, sweetheart."

"Rachel."

She closes her eyes. "I quit."

"You what?"

"I quit," repeats Rachel.

"I heard you the first time, I'm not that completely useless," spits Quinn. "I want to know why you quit."

"Quinn…"

"Why?"

Rachel stays quiet.

"It's because of me, isn't it?"

"Not entirely," says Rachel, because the best she can do is stretch the truth. "Robert extended the show for another season and it wasn't in my contract, so I'm not obliged to stay on. I need a break from the theater anyway so it was a natural decision."

"You can't do this."

"I can and I did," says Rachel firmly, dropping all pretense. " _You_ are more important to me than Broadway, Quinn. End of discussion."

"But you shouldn't have had to choose."

She can't say anything to that. Rachel bows her head, listening to the sounds of the wheelchair fading from the room.

* * *

While Santana and Brittany (and sometimes Quinn's mother) take turns to stop by, Rachel becomes Quinn's official primary caretaker when it becomes apparent that Quinn's condition has deteriorated enough that she needs around-the-clock care.

The final straw comes when Quinn can no longer get out of bed. Rachel doesn't bat an eye, simply places the phone call to fully convert their home into a state-of-the-art hospice.

When they get home from the hospital, Quinn collapses in sobs. "I love you," says Rachel, gripping Quinn's shoulders tightly as though she can hold her wife together, "I love you so much, Quinn."

* * *

"Quinn?"

She doesn't speak much these days; partly out of frustration at being helpless, mostly because she has difficulty getting enough air into her lungs. But Rachel can see from her breathing pattern that Quinn is awake. As her physical condition deteriorated, so did her emotional state.

"Sweetheart, the clinic just called. I need to run out for a while to fill your prescription. Will you be okay by yourself for a little while?"

Not even a flicker. Dulled hazel eyes stare at a point beyond Rachel. Her heart cracks open a little wider.

"... I love you so much, Quinn." She reaches out to brush tangled hair from Quinn's face, and kiss the clammy forehead.

* * *

Quinn is sitting up when Rachel comes home. Her laptop is open to a webpage on assisted suicide.

Rachel screams, pushes the laptop off the bed, and bursts into tears.

* * *

"Rachel?"

She's instantly awake. "Quinn? What's wrong? Are you in pain? Shall I get your pills?" asks Rachel, rolling over to face her wife.

"Rachel, do you love me?" The words are slow, measured.

"Baby, what a question. I love you. I've loved you before I knew you. I'll always love you."

"If you love me," Quinn says, breath hitching, "you'd let me do this."

"I – Quinn…"

"I can't do this anymore. I don't _do_ anything anymore. I'm always so tired, Rachel, and I'm in so much pain. You're exhausted as well. Baby – you need to live your own life, I can see how this is killing you too." She pauses. "I'm not going to get better, Rachel. The doctors said I don't have much longer, even with the meds, and I need you to – "

"Quinn!" She can't say anything else through her sobs. Rachel's hands shoot out, scrabbling until she finds Quinn's fingers; they're cold, despite the thick blankets. She squeezes as though she can rub the life back into them.

Quinn moves to take her wife into her arms, though her efforts are weak, and she is breathing heavily. Rachel has to help her, and it makes her cry harder.

"I'm sorry," says Quinn.

"Don't be. I know how much it takes to make it through, and how long you've been fighting but… I can't let go. I can't lose you. I'm sorry for being selfish."

"You're not. Rachel, you're the most unselfish person I know. I – God, what was I saying? I'm sorry, sweetheart. I didn't mean to scare you like that."

Rachel spends the rest of the night crying in her wife's embrace.

* * *

The next day is better. Quinn has her laptop out, and she's even able to make notes by hand on the pad at her side as she works on her newest project – a novel about love and second chances that she's been working on for the past few years.

"You promised me I could proofread your latest chapter," says Rachel when she enters the converted home office, tray in hand.

"Give me two hours, I'm not done yet." Quinn scribbles a sentence on her pad; both pretend not to notice how illegible it is when compared to the top half's notes from 4 months ago. "Needy," she mutters under her breath, smirking at Rachel's little outraged gasp.

"I heard that."

"You were supposed to."

"You're so mean." Rachel scoots over, trying to sneak a peek at the laptop screen; Quinn makes an indignant noise, shutting the lid.

"And you're snooping."

Rachel's known her Quinn long enough to sense that she's hiding something; but she lets it slide out of relief to see this playful Quinn after such a long time, and with the conversation last night…

When the good days are few and far in between, Rachel will take what she can get.

"Give me a teaser, and I won't snoop. Promise."

Quinn huffs a laugh. "Fine."

* * *

Rachel lies on the bed, head on Quinn's shoulder, her ear pressed to her wife's chest to listen to the thump of her heartbeat.

"You'll be fine when I'm gone," says Quinn, "you're Rachel Berry."

"I've always been Rachel Berry. It's Rachel Fabray I want to be, forever." 

She feels, rather than hears, Quinn's shaky sigh. "You know... it's the stupid things you say, like that, which make me love you even more than I thought possible." Quinn's fingers brush through her hair, the movement slow and clumsy. They catch some of the tangles in Rachel's hair; she doesn't say anything. "You're making it hard for me to leave."

"Then don't," says Rachel quietly. She lifts her head to stare into those soft hazel eyes she's known for close to twenty years now, and it isn't enough. "Leave _with_ me. When we're old and grey and cranky, and we've raised amazing children, and you've gotten your bestselling series published, and I've gotten my lifetime achievement awards..."

She trails off when she sees Quinn shake her head slowly. "Baby, you  _know_ that's not an option anymore." 

This is one of the good days – one of the last few good days Quinn has left. The doctors were quite certain about that (sympathetic, but still certain). Rachel knows because Quinn's eyes are bright, not clouded by pain or medication. She's not ready to let go.

She'll never be ready to let go.

"I know," confesses Rachel; this is the closest she's ever come to acknowledging the truth of Quinn's condition. She puts on a brave face. "Can we not talk about this? I just want to be here with you right now."

Quinn nods. Her eyes flutter shut when Rachel's fingertips brush over her cheek. "I love you."

"Say it again."

"I love you."

Rachel sobs.

* * *

It was an emergency. She needed to make her weekly trip to the clinic to pick up Quinn's medication, but both Santana and Brittany were busy. Though she doesn't like to leave Quinn alone at home, Rachel decides to chance it. Nevertheless, she made it to the clinic and back in record time. 

"Quinn? I'm home."

The house is oddly silent.

Rachel runs through their apartment. The bed is empty, the chair gone. All of Quinn's things are in their place.

Then Rachel opens the bathroom door, and screams.

* * *

She doesn't go home again, even after the police and the ambulance has come and gone.

Kurt, Santana, Blaine, and Brittany all take it in turns to fetch Rachel's things from the house because none of them can bear to be inside for long, talking in hushed, tear-filled voices around her as Rachel sits on Santana and Brittany's couch in a daze. People take it in turns to hold her and cry with her; she doesn't really notice who.

The shock of being the one to discover Quinn affects Rachel so profoundly, her friends put her on suicide watch for a while despite her assurances that she would never, _never_ do to them what Quinn did to her.

Just like the accident, everything is her fault. She should have seen all the signs of depression that have been lurking ever since after the accident, through the years of living with Quinn, to her wife's final weeks after the latest accident. She should have spotted all the red flags and gotten help. She should have known not to leave Quinn alone.

She should have. But she didn't.

* * *

It occurs to Rachel that the pain from seeing Quinn being happy with someone else is nothing compared to the pain of having Quinn and then losing her to herself. It took her friends months to convince her that Quinn's car accident wasn't her fault, but this? Rachel spends a good while in a catatonic state of her own.

"It's not your fault," says Santana, her voice raw.

"The accident also wasn't my fault," replies Rachel, and excuses herself.

* * *

Quinn had wanted to be cremated, and her ashes scattered. It's fitting that after a life tied to a chair, she would want to fly after death.

After the brief ceremony in which some of her writing is read, and her friends and family each given a portion to scatter, Santana approaches Rachel. "We found an envelope with your name on it," says Santana, her eyes red, "and we thought you'd want to know."

Rachel contemplates throwing it away, unopened; burning it and letting the ashes fly free with Quinn. But she finds herself nodding and taking the envelope from Santana. It's warm and thick, a solid weight in her hand; almost reassuring.

The contents – pages and pages of Quinn's handwriting torn out of her writing pad – turn out to be anything but.

She had asked to be alone to read it, promising she'll call later. Rachel makes it through four pages before running to the bathroom to violently expel the contents of her stomach.

* * *

(In another lifetime, she'd stolen away to the choir room to be alone with Finn's portrait when Quinn joined her.

"I'm sorry."

"For?"

"Not being there."

"I understand." She really did. If it had happened a year earlier, without Kurt and Santana's support, she would have withdrawn completely into herself. Rachel smiled at Quinn, who smiled back eventually. "I'm glad you're here now."

"Me too."

They went back to contemplating the picture in silence. "Puck and I were just talking about him. Coach Beiste hung his framed jersey in the locker room."

"I know," said Rachel. "I gave it to her to display there."

"Did you keep _any_ of Finn's things?"

"Just the pictures, and a T-shirt. I'll always have the memories." She had a few other things, of course, but it felt too raw and private to share.

Quinn nodded. "Did you… do you want to talk about it?"

Rachel cast a surprised glance her way. "I… okay." She nodded towards the piano bench; they sat, side by side, hands folded in their laps. "I really appreciate it."

"It's just talking, Rachel," laughed Quinn softly.

"It means more to me than you know." Rachel looked down at her feet. "I'm not… I know I'm not the easiest person to talk to, or be around, but I'm so lucky to have Kurt and Santana. No, seriously," she added, catching the expression on Quinn's face. "Santana has proved to be a good friend, despite our antagonistical relationship in high school, and I wouldn't trade her friendship for anything."

"Yeah. She may be a little rough around the edges, but being out of this small town – not to mention being with Brittany – brings out the best in her."

Rachel nodded. Her gaze fell back on Finn's portrait. "Do you think he suffered?"

Quinn was silent. "We'll never know for sure, but I prefer to think it was quick and painless. He didn't deserve to suffer… You know, given the choice between a slow death and a quick one, I'd choose to go by my own hand."

Rachel's head snapped up. She stared at Quinn, white-faced and trembling. "Quinn Fabray, you'd better not have said what I think I just heard you say."

"I was just – god, Rachel, it was _hypothetical_. I didn't mean it."

"Still, you shouldn't have said it."

Quinn sighed. "You're right. I'm sorry."

Rachel smiled weakly. "Apology accepted.")

* * *

The show must go on.

She makes all the arrangements, dry-eyed and stoic. Quinn left no will, so Rachel donates most of her things, distributes a few personal belongings among their closest friends, and sells her (their) apartment.

Her agent doesn't coax her into accepting roles; one day he shows up at her new place, a script in hand, and lets her read it. She quite likes the script, but she thinks that the true music of her life was listening to the sound of Quinn's heartbeat as they curled around each other in gentle ellipses. Rachel signs on anyway.

The review of her opening night gushes about how strong she is. _Is this what being strong feels like?_ Rachel wonders, because she feels full of broken glass inside.

* * *

Eventually she gets better. Better, but not okay. After that comeback performance, she stops taking on roles altogether; her singing is technically flawless, her acting stunning, but she lacks the passion and energy that used to define her.

Rachel is offered a visiting instructorship at NYADA. She knows it's out of pity, but she takes it anyway for lack of a better distraction.

Cassandra July shows up after the last of her voice students (she'll never, in a million years, teach dance) leave on her first day of work, and gives her a bottle of vodka and a smirk.

"I'm surprised you're not dead yet, you bitch," Rachel tells her. Cassandra's smirk widens.

"It's fan-fucking-tastic to see you too, Schwimmer."

A decade hasn't changed her much, and Rachel thinks it a gross injustice that this miserable human being who made her first year at NYADA hell is alive and walking around like her Quinn never got to do. She hates Cassandra July, and tells her so.

"The feeling's mutual. All that talent shriveled up and drowned in a puddle of self-pity. Boo hoo, Schwimmer. Other people got back up from losing their whole fucking family and pet dog, and you? You're stuck here holding the hands of no-talent hacks, and telling them to dream big."

Loathing curls in her abdomen, white-hot and poisonous. "Fuck you."

"You wish."

As Cassandra leaves, Rachel realises it was the first time in a long time she's _felt_ so strongly.

* * *

She storms into Cassandra July's dance studio and hisses, "I am _sick_ and _tired_ of having you snipe at me _all semester_ with your petty, underhanded, _spiteful_ methods."

"It's called adulthood, Schwimmer," drawls Cassandra, "try it on for size." Her hips sway exaggeratedly as she walks around the studio, getting ready to leave for the day.

"You're pathetic."

"I'm not the one who stormed into someone else's studio to whine at them."

That roiling sensation in her belly continues to build, and it's driving Rachel insane. "Look at me when I'm talking to you."

Cassandra laughs. "Or else…? What? You're gonna give me detention?"

Rachel snaps. She snatches the other woman's wrist, pushing so she's forced against the mirror. Cassandra isn't much taller than she is, but she still manages to look down the length of her nose at Rachel, a hint of a smirk on her face. "This is a little inappropriate, don't you think?"

"You would know all about that," shoots back Rachel.

Surprisingly, Cassandra doesn't say anything further. Her gaze sharpens, as though she's challenging Rachel to look away first. Rachel had no intention of caving, but her eyes are dragged away by other things; the plumpness of the other woman's lower lip, the column of her neck, the straining front of her tank top –

It's a wholly unpleasant sensation when she realises; that unease she's been feeling when she looks at Cassandra July? Arousal.

She can't possibly be attracted to Cassandra _fucking_ July, except… she really is.

Rachel's lip curls. She lets go of Cassandra's hand, backing away quickly, and spins on her heel. The diva storm-out is a little rusty – it's been years since she last had an opportunity to use it – but it serves its purpose just fine.

* * *

_Can this be considered a fetish?_ thinks Rachel. Because she isn't completely comfortable with this attraction to gorgeous blonde uber-bitches who were committed to making her existence miserable, now that it's happened twice in her life (three, if she's counting her real life, in which she slept with this blonde bombshell from the drama department who had a reputation for trampling rivals and looked unsettlingly like the lovechild of Quinn, Brittany, _and_ Sam).

She voices her concerns to an unnerved-looking Santana over coffee one afternoon, who only laughs disbelievingly once she's done outlining her theory.

"Okay, Berry; while I still don't understand why you felt the need to overshare personal shit that I really didn't need to know, that's not really a fetish. I can tell you those are way weirder than this… your metaphorical boner for bitchy blondes."

God, she's missed Santana's unique brand of friendship, badly-covered-over with sarcasm. "I'm serious, Santana. This could lead to potential abusive relationships."

Her friend snorts. "That's not happening. You clearly wear the pointy dominatrix boots in your relationships. Q told me that you – " Santana catches herself, tears welling in her eyes.

"You can say her name," says Rachel quietly.

"I know that."

"Don't act like she never existed. She… Quinn was here." Rachel's body shakes with violent sobs; Santana swears under her breath, wrapping her hand around Rachel's upper arm.

"Rachel. Rach. Shhh. It's okay."

"I'm okay. I know I am," insists Rachel, rubbing the heels of her hand at her eyes, "but I don't know why I can't stop crying. She's – she's in a better place, anywhere she isn't in pain anymore, and – that's a good thing, right?"

"I miss her too," says Santana, her own cheeks wet with tears.

Rachel laughs a little, because they came here to gossip about her ill-advised attraction to Cassandra July but they've ended up crying in each other's arms and the whole cafe is staring at them now. "Quinn would be mortified if she could see us now."

" _So_ mortified," agrees Santana.

She supposes they must be quite the sight; she and Santana, grinning at each other, their cheeks still wet with tears. It's the first time they talked about Quinn without someone storming out and someone crying. Rachel says so, and Santana scowls.

"Only one out of two, but okay, fine. We were doing so well, Rach. Don't ruin it."

She just laughs softly, leaning forward to press her forehead to Santana's shoulder.

"So… Cassandra July," Santana softly prompts.

Rachel sighs. "What about Cassandra July?"

"You like her?"

"God, that sounds so middle school, but – yes. Yes, I like her."

"Then I'd say go for it. It's been two years."

"It has?"

"Yeah. Time flies when you're not having fun."

Rachel sighs. "You can say that again."

They go back to their drinks. The rest of the cafe, now convinced that they aren't going to have another emotional breakdown, slowly returns back to their business.

"... I kept it."

"Kept what?" asks Santana.

"The letter. That envelope you found." Rachel scrubs at her face with the heel of her hand. "I wanted to dispose of it, but I couldn't."

"Oh." Santana pulls away slightly to look at her. "Why not?"

"It just didn't feel right."

Santana is silent. "I get the feeling that someday, you'll know what to do with it."

"You think?"

"I know."

"Okay, but... frankly, I'm a little unsettled. It's usually Brittany being this smart, not you."

Santana rolls her eyes. "Give me a little credit. I've been married to her for twenty-nine years, I like to think I've picked up a few things."

* * *

"I hope you know how unprofessional you're being," Rachel informs Cassandra July archly.

The older woman lets out a bark of laughter. "Excuse me? _You're_ the one who marched into _my_ classroom, Ms Berry. Again."

Rachel tilts her chin up. She's hoping the gesture helps to negate her height disadvantage by giving her the illusion of looking down on Cassandra July; combined with her five-inch heels, it's working. "I'm just delivering a message."

"Mmm. Very civic-minded of you." She throws on her coat and picks up her bag. "I should thank you. Do you know that jazz club down the road? I'll buy you a drink."

"I don't think I'll be overstepping my civic duty by reminding you that a recovering alcoholic shouldn't be offering other people drinks," says Rachel archly, trying to maintain her composure now that Cassandra _fucking_ July's just asked her out.

Cassandra rolls her eyes. "I'll have them stick a glass under the tap for me. Happy?"

Rachel smirks. She's enjoyed their banter more than she has any right to. "Marginally. Don't be such a tight bitch, though; make sure they add a shot or two to mine. _Seb's_ , right? I'll meet you there. Don't want to give the students any reason to think you're being unprofessional." And she turns and _struts_ out, adding an extra sway to her hips, knowing Cassandra's watching.

* * *

"I'm sorry about your wife," says Cassandra (no, Cassie now that they've slept together) later that night.

Rachel laughs sourly. "What do you care? You're a heartless bitch. Like she once was. Note the use of present and past tense."

She thinks she sees a flash of hurt in Cassie's eyes, but it's gone when she blinks. "Yeah? Looked in the mirror recently, Ohio? Because you're getting there." She slides out of bed and struts, unabashedly naked, to the bathroom. "At least I'm a fuckable bitch."

Rachel scowls. Cassie's right, as unwelcome as it is. After Quinn's death, she was the only person that didn't treat her with kid gloves – even Santana had mellowed considerably. "... you're right. I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."

"Good to see fame hasn't completely gone to your head." When she reemerges, she has a bathrobe on. "As nice as tonight was, it's late, and a girl needs all the beauty sleep she can get." Cassie points to the door. "I'm afraid you'll have to see yourself out, despite not seeing much of the place on your way in."

Rachel doesn't protest. Judging from the hungry expression Cassie wears while watching her get dressed, she'll be here again in the near future. "Fine. See you around."

* * *

Kurt and Blaine greet her with warm smiles, and fuss over the bottle of wine she's brought. Over lasagna and walnut salad, she tells them she's sleeping with Cassandra July.

Kurt drops his fork. Blaine makes a tutting noise and goes to fetch him a new one.

"Rachel Barbra Berry. You're _sleeping_ with _Cassandra July_?"

"I am," she says, staring straight back at him.

"You're not dating her? In a relationship?" Blaine asks, coming out from the kitchen.

"No, we're not in high school anymore." She relents, seeing their worried expressions. "It's purely physical attraction on both our sides, and it's convenient. That's all there is."

"Rachel," starts Kurt, "are you sure? Aside from the fact that it's _Cassandra July_ , Quinn wouldn't want you to get hurt..."

"How do you know what Quinn would or wouldn't want? She's _dead_ ," snaps Rachel. Both Blaine and Kurt flinch. "I'm not replacing her, or rushing into another relationship," continues Rachel in a gentler tone of voice, "I'm not ready. I… I don't think I'll ever be ready."

Kurt sighs. "I'm sorry, Rachel. You're right. We worry that she's using you, or that she's out to hurt you."

"You know, Quinn used to be like that, and we ended up married," says Rachel, attempting to smile as her lip wobbles. "So… I think I'll be fine."

"If you're sure," says Blaine, wrapping her in a one-armed hug, resting his head against hers.

* * *

Shockingly enough, it's Cassie who takes the next step.

"You don't have to go," she says from the bed as Rachel hunts for her clothes (they were feeling adventurous last night, and Cassie had suggested they introduce toys into the bedroom; the result is that their clothes are strewn in every corner, not all intact).

Rachel sits up on her haunches, half-dressed in torn panties and a single stocking. She puts her hands on her hips and stares at a leering Cassie. "I won't be able to go anywhere without being arrested for public indecency if I don't find the rest of my outfit – whatever hasn't been ripped beyond repair, that is. Thanks again for that, by the way."

Cassie smirks at her, but then her expression turns serious – and even shy. "I meant that – you could stay here instead of having to travel all the way to your miserable artist hole."

Rachel laughs at her. "Why, Ms July!" she exclaims, crawling on the bed and trying to kiss her. "One would almost think that you cared!"

Cassie's mock scowl becomes genuine. "Screw you, Schwimmer," she says, slapping Rachel's hands away. "I was trying to be less of a fucking bitch than you say I am, but I guess it's wasted on you."

"Hey, hey. I'm sorry." Rachel catches her wrists. "Cassie, I was joking. You don't normally… you like your personal space, and I'm the girl who practically moved into her first boyfriend's house."

"As though I don't know that. Neediness practically oozed out of every pore when you were in my class, and I had to take two showers to get the stink of desperation off me."

Rachel rolls her eyes. "Fucking drama queen. I'm being serious here; I'm not easy to be with, and I'm not over my last relationship yet. We agreed that this was casual, you know?"

"Ohio, I'm not shoving a ring on your damned finger. This is just convenient for us both, in case I have a sudden inexplicable craving for your mouth on me in the wee hours."

"The feeling's mutual," says Rachel with a smirk. "Although I do wonder if I want a mouth that filthy between my legs, I could catch a STD."

Cassie growls. She moves forward, pinning Rachel to the bed, straddling her waist. "Your foreplay fucking sucks," mutters Cassie, already trailing a hand down her lover's side.

"Shall I show you exactly how much I suck?" purrs Rachel in response.

* * *

"Rachel."

She was dozing, but she snaps fully awake because it's one of the rare times (almost never) that Cassie calls her by her name. "Yeah?" asks Rachel, rolling over to look at her.

Cassie's eyes burn dark with intent. It becomes abundantly clear what's on her mind when she moves to straddle Rachel, her hands resting on Rachel's shoulders.

"It's late. We've got a long day tomorrow, and – " Rachel's cut off by a bruising kiss; one that she responds to despite her words.

"Say my name," breathes Cassie when they finally part.

"I – "

Fingertips trail up Rachel's sides, and she gasps when they tease painfully sensitive nipples.

Cassie smirks. "Come on, Rachel." She bends to nip an earlobe, tongue darting out to follow the shell of Rachel's ear. "Don't keep me waiting."

"Cassie." The sound turns into a moan when Cassie pinches her nipple _hard_. "God, you – don't stop."

"Only if you won't," challenges Cassie.

* * *

"Why?"

Cassie's gaze flicks sideways, and then back to the tights she's pulling on. "Why what, Schwimmer?"

"Last night."

"I don't need a reason for fucking you, do I?" She goes to hunt for another article of clothing from the bedroom floor. "We find each other attractive and convenient, and have been doing so for the past four months."

Rachel ignores her attempts at deflection. She sits up, the sheet still wrapped around her torso. "You never say my name ordinarily."

Cassie snorts. "Even I'm not that crass as to not scream the name of the person giving me an orgasm."

Rachel stares at her in silence. It continues until Cassie is fully dressed. "Okay," says Rachel quietly.

Just as Cassie is headed out the door, she pauses. "Maybe sometimes," she says without turning her head, "I want to feel like I'm not a replacement for someone else."

The door clicks shut behind her.

* * *

They must be getting old; they spend less time having sex, and more time talking. It almost feels like a relationship.

"So, what? We're dating now?"

Cassie looks away from her phone, down at the woman with her head in her lap. "Dating is for teenagers. I'm hot, you don't always make me want to throw up, we want sex with each other." She snorts. "Hallmark, on the other hand, _does_ make me want to throw up, with their goddamned sappy romantic muck."

Rachel just laughs, taking the veiled compliment for what it is. "Has anyone told you that you're almost exactly the same as Santana?"

"Please. Lopez can only fucking wish she was as good as me." They both return to their phones, until Cassie breaks the comfortable silence with: "You should write a song."

"What?"

"You're wasted teaching those kids how to hold a note; they couldn't even hold water in a cup if you poured it for them. You're Rachel fucking Berry, you should be making your mark on the world like you always told me you would."

"I did," points out Rachel. "Also, what makes you think I can write songs? I _have_ told you about the disaster that was _My Headband,_ right?"

"You're older and slightly less shittier at songwriting, and have been in enough musicals to know what makes good music." Cassie puts her phone aside. "It's worth a shot."

"And what would it be about? Teenage angst? Other hair accessories?"

"Your wife."

All the breath leaves Rachel's lungs. She sits up. "I…"

"I saw the envelope," says Cassie, looking more serious than Rachel's ever seen her, holding up a hand to stall Rachel's indignant protests, "by accident. I was looking for our lease agreement."

"You had no right to read something so personal," argues Rachel weakly. She isn't actually angry; she feels displaced, memories stirred up within her by the mention of something she's neatly packed away so she can function on a daily basis.

"I know. But there is a story there worth telling, and… you need to tell it. You haven't been able to let go of her, all this while, because you've been holding onto her."

"Take it back," gasps Rachel.

"I'm not forcing you to do anything. You and I both know you can't be forced to fucking do anything you really don't want to do. But think about it." She slides herself from underneath Rachel and disappears into their bedroom.

* * *

The lights are off by the time Rachel goes to bed. She slips under the sheets, crawling closer to the figure facing away from her. "Are you awake, Cassie?"

She gets no reply. Rachel sighs. The tentative brush of her hand over the small of Cassie's back doesn't cause her to flinch, or draw away, so she takes that as a win. Rachel settles herself more comfortably against Cassie. "You're right," she whispers against the curve of Cassie's ear. "I should write our story – mine and Quinn's. She deserves to be… she shouldn't be remembered for the wrong reasons."

"But it's not like you don't deserve anything, either," continues Rachel. Her hand comes up to encircle Cassie's shoulder. "You helped put me back together, and I'll always be grateful for that."

She presses her forehead to the nape of Cassie's neck. "I think I'll be ready to move on. With you. Once I've gotten out of NYADA, and told her story."

* * *

There is a saying that she remembers, that _the pain doesn't go away when you do; it merely passes on to the people that have loved you_. She uses it to pen music far better than _Get It Right_ ever was, with pieces of Quinn's unpublished writing serving as lyrics. Instead of a song, she ends up with an entire album.

 _So be it,_ she thinks. If she's going to take this project seriously, she'll work with the best in the industry.

"I think it's great that you're doing this," offers Tina quietly. Artie nods, his expression soft. "We're glad that you wanted us to be a part of it too."

"I wouldn't want anyone she didn't know to be a part of this," says Rachel, smiling at them, "but then again, you guys _are_ the best in the business."

"Glad to meet your standards," says Tina. She briefly meets Rachel's eye; there's sympathy there, but mostly understanding. Rachel feels a rush of gratitude for the friends she has. After nearly a hundred years of friendship (cumulatively), Tina has yet to disappoint her.

Then the moment – because that's what it had to be – passes, and Tina turns back to her sketchbook, all business. "Do you think you could describe what you had in mind for the album concept?" she asks, pencil hovering over paper.

* * *

_Lucy_ is a stunningly moving, themed conceptual album dedicated to the late Quinn Fabray, and produced by the legendary husband-and-wife team Abrams-Cohen-Chang; critics are hailing it as one of the most important albums of the year.

But what the fans love to speculate on is the B-side, separated from the rest of the album. There are two songs hidden on the CD, behind a variation of the album art. While the image on the cover is a woman with a crown of flowers, looking into the camera, the variation differs in that there's another woman, brunette where the first is blonde. She looks away from the camera with an enigmatic smile on her face.

It's not Quinn; that much is clear. There's no resemblance in the lines of the jaw, the curve of the mouth, the long nose.

"She isn't a real person. An allegory of sorts. I suppose you could say she's the album, personified," is all Rachel will say about the hidden side.

(If her album is about remembering lost things, at least Eleanor Lucille Hudson exists here.)

* * *

"My god, Berry; stop making me cry in public. I have a reputation, damn it," says Santana, and promptly bursts into tears.

"What she means is 'good job, Rach'," says Brittany, hugging Rachel so fiercely that the smaller woman lets out an 'oof' sound, her feet temporarily leaving the ground. "Q would have loved it. I'll bet she's being so proud of you right now. Along with Lord Tubbington."

She laughs, hugging her friend back even as a still-bawling Santana throws her arms around them both. "Thank you, Brittany. And Santana."

"Asian 1. Wheels. You did good."

"High praise, coming from you, Santana," says Tina wryly, but gives her a hug anyway.

* * *

After one of her promotional concerts, Rachel bumps into an unexpected visitor outside the stage entrance. "Judy," she says, dazed.

Judy Fabray looks small and frail, and Rachel realises it's been years since she last saw her mother-in-law. "Hello, Rachel."

"It's good to see you. You look well."

"That's a relief, but that's not exactly true."

Rachel feels the pit of her stomach fall away. "Cancer?"

Judy nods. "They found a tumour in my intestine. It's spread too far to operate. The doctors gave me four months."

"I'm so sorry."

"I received the album you sent. I've been meaning to see you perform it live for a while now, but this… was a pretty good reason to stop putting it off."

"There's a place nearby that has the best hot chocolate in Manhattan," Rachel hears herself saying. "Quinn and I used to go there after my shows."

"I'd like to try it."

* * *

They don't speak on the walk to the cafe, and after Rachel orders two mugs of chocolate. Judy has her hands clasped in her lap in a manner that Rachel has seen Quinn do, many times; Rachel keeps her gaze fixed outside. Their mugs steam between them.

"I've been staying in New York for a week, but I only found the courage to come watch you tonight," admits Judy quietly. "It was beautiful."

"Thank you."

"The letter you talked about onstage… Quinn wrote it, didn't she?"

Rachel nods. "Santana found it in her things after she... " She trails off. "I don't think Quinn actually intended for me to read it, even though it was addressed to me."

"You turned it into music."

"Some parts of it." Most of what Quinn had left was too raw, too personal to share, but some of it had found its way into _Lucy_. "She was such a wonderful writer. Quinn always talked about us collaborating someday, that she'd write lyrics if I wrote the music." Rachel's eyes are shiny with tears, her throat tight, but she takes a deep breath and continues talking. "In a way, this was a cathartic experience for me. I wanted to share with the world how special Quinn was to me, how she had changed my life; I didn't want her to be remembered for how she'd chosen to leave it."

Judy grips her hand tightly, tears of her own welling in her eyes. "Thank you for telling her story. Quinnie… she loved you very much. She'd tell me how wonderful you are, how much she loved you."

"I know. And I loved her, so much."

"We all did, sweetie."

* * *

Judy declined to have Rachel see her off, only letting her hail a cab to take her back to her hotel.

"I'll come visit soon," promises Rachel.

Judy just smiles. "Whenever you're free, dear," she says, and Rachel knows that this is the last time they will talk. Impulsively, she takes a step forward. "I'm going to hug you now," she says, and doesn't wait for an answer.

Judy has never been a hugger – she knows this from watching the way she interacts with Quinn – so Rachel isn't surprised to feel the woman stiffen in her embrace. Before she can pull away, however, Judy hugs her back, firmly. "I miss her so much," whispers the older woman.

Rachel screws her face up. "Me too."

Neither woman wants to let go, and they do so reluctantly when the cab pulls up. "Take care of yourself, Rachel," says Judy.

"I will. Goodbye, Judy."

* * *

Ironically, a car accident takes her in this life. She's on her way home to Cassie when a delivery van loses control over the slippery ice and plows into her taxi. She doesn't feel any pain; instead, a lingering sense of relief.

* * *

"Fuck!"

Rachel opened her eyes, chest heaving. She was back in her chair.

He was watching her, clearly amused, chin in one hand, a fresh drink in the other. "How vulgar."

"That was – fuck," repeated Rachel. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her hands ran over her body, checking to see if she's intact. She hunched forward, a wail escaping her. " _Quinn_ – "

Her companion groaned. His footsteps echoed across the wooden deck and faded away.

* * *

Rachel found her way back to her room sometime around dawn. She didn't bother kicking off her shoes before collapsing into bed. After she woke up, she spent the rest of the day browsing through her social media feeds until she was completely reassured the life she'd lived had never happened.

She dialed the number before she realised what she's doing, and then the other person picked up before she could end the call.

"Hey, Rach. You okay?"

"Santana. Hey. I'm not okay."

"Well, that was direct. You wanna talk about it? I mean, you looked pretty happy in that Instagram update. What, paradise turned out to be a shithole?"

Rachel laughed. "No, paradise is just fine. I just… I missed talking to you. Although I am a little disturbed that you follow my Instagram account. That's not actually me; you know that, right?"

"Duh," snorted Santana. "It's just that we haven't had the time to talk in _weeks_. If I want to know you're not dead, I check social media."

Rachel sighed. She had hoped that talking to one of her oldest friends would have cheered her up a bit, but it only depressed her further. "You're right. That's got to stop, once I get back. I love you so much, Santana, and I know I haven't been showing it lately, but you're one of my best friends."

"Whoa, hey. You're getting mushy on me. Are you alright? What's bothering you, Midget?"

It was a sign she _really_ missed Santana if the mention of the familiar disparaging nickname was enough to make Rachel smile. "I was wondering… have you talked to Quinn, recently?"

"Nuh-uh. Britt and me are Switzerland-neutral in this. I'm not gonna be involved in this she-said, she-said mess."

"San," she said. "I'm not asking you about that. I just want to know if she's doing okay."

Santana was silent for a moment. "She's fine," says Santana at last, "she had dinner with me and Britt the other night. Q didn't talk a whole lot, but that's normal for her. Britt says she'll be okay."

"I made a mistake, San. I hurt her."

"Rachel."

"I was scared – I said some things to her that I shouldn't have. She didn't deserve to hear those things, especially not from me."

"You should be telling her that, not me," said Santana.

"... I know. Santana?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you think she'll forgive me?"

Santana sighed. "I don't know for sure, but I have a feeling she will. She learned from the best, y'know."

Rachel smiled. "I'm coming home. I'm catching the next plane out of here."

"Good luck, hobbit."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: This entire oneshot took 6 months to write, and approximately 90% of it was written on my phone.


	4. The Third Night (and First Morning)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it's not very clear, present tense indicates the life Rachel's currently living, past tense is her memory of events that have happened in her actual reality.
> 
> The music mentioned in this chapter belongs to the mentioned artists, except for Sara Bareilles' _Morningside_ , which I have evilly attributed to Santana. Know that it is a lie.
> 
> Further notes, meta, and commentary can be found on my Tumblr [here](http://yumi-michiyo.tumblr.com/post/160175273516/for-you-id-burn-the-length-and-breadth-of-sky).

_So come to me my love_  
_I'll tap into your strength and drain it dry_  
_Can never have enough_  
_For you I'd burn the length and breadth of sky_

**_[My Medea](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GcYVef5KKN4) _** \- **Vienna Teng**

* * *

Well, she _had_ every intention of getting on the next plane off paradise and back to New York. Unfortunately, reality (in every sense of the word), worked otherwise.

“What do you mean, _there are no flights scheduled today_?”

“Exactly that, Ms. Berry; even for you,” said the manager apologetically, and she wished that she didn’t have such a reputation for diva tantrums. “Certainly, we can book you on the next flight from Barbados to the States, but there are no flights from Mustique today because it’s a public holiday.”

“I understand, but it’s very important that I return to New York as soon as possible. Is there a ferry I could take, or…?”

“There is, but the next ferry is in three days’ time.”

“Three _days_.” Rachel struggled to calm herself. “Okay,” she said, very calmly (though the man still flinched), “then what would you suggest that would be my best option for getting off this island, ASAP?”

“There might be some private yacht owners who are willing to take you. I could make a few calls,” volunteered the manager.

“That would be great; thank you… David,” said Rachel, eyes flicking to the brass nametag on his shirt. “Your help is very much appreciated.”

“Don’t mention it, Ms. Berry.”

* * *

Santana was in the middle of something (Rachel knew exactly what that _something_ was, judging from how out of breath her friend sounded, but chose not to comment) but still managed to answer her phone halfway through the second call. “Jeez, midget; some of us have better things to do.”

“I can’t make it back tonight,” she blurted out.

“No shit? What, we’re not going ahead with the dinner?” Santana’s voice became muffled. Rachel could still hear her say, “It’s Rachel, Britt; she can’t make it tonight.”

“I’m putting you on speaker,” said Santana, and Brittany’s voice filtered down the line.

“Hi, Rachel.”

“Hi, Brittany. I’m sorry to ruin your plans like this. It’s a holiday here on Mustique, apparently, and there are no flights today, and the next ferry leaves in three days. The manager said he could try and find some yacht owners who would be willing to give me a ride to Barbados, and then – _Santana Lopez_ , are you _laughing_ at me?”

“Babe, stop laughing at Rachel,” said Brittany reproachfully, amidst the snickers in the background.

“Sorry. I can’t help it, I’m only human. This is like some big romantic comedy. Streisand, are we starring in your next hit movie? Make sure they get our good sides, okay?”

“This isn’t funny,” huffed Rachel. “I understand that this might be a source of amusement to you, Santana, but I am taking this very seriously, and I’m doing my best not to panic.”

“You’re doing great, Rachel,” said Brittany soothingly. “Don’t worry; us bicorns are designed to be awesome under pressure. It’s like, we have two horns, so it makes sense we always have two plans too.”

“... as you say, Brittany.”

“Yeah, listen to Brittany. That totally made sense; my girl’s a genius,” said Santana. “So what? Should I summon the Gay Council? Postpone Operation Squeeze Berry’s Juice?”

Rachel heaved a long-suffering sigh, although she was definitely smiling. “There’s no need for that, Santana; I’ll talk to Blaine and Kurt myself after this to inform them of my change in plans. Thank you for volunteering, though.”

“Anytime.”

“Good luck, Rachel,” chimed in Brittany, and then they ended the call. Immediately, she dialled Kurt’s number (she had to scroll through her contacts to find him because he wasn't on her list of recent contacts) and waited.

“Rachel?”

“Hi, Kurt. It’s… been a while.”

“It has, but I’m always glad to hear from you,” he said warmly. Rachel clutched her phone tightly, wondering what she’d done to deserve people like Santana and Kurt as her friends. “Would this have anything to do with that weird text Santana sent me last night about berry juice…?”

“Ignore her, you know how she is.”

“I did,” laughed Kurt. “Besides, it’s not like Blaine and I have a spare moment to entertain Santana these days. Livy’s learning to walk and it’s driving Blaine crazy. He’s baby-proofed our entire house, and he’s taken to following her with his camera.”

“Yes, I think I’ve seen the Facebook albums – all twenty-seven of them,” said Rachel, laughing when Kurt groaned. “... God, I’ve missed this. I miss you, and Blaine, and even Livy – though I did _not_ miss the pregnancy hormones.”

“You know we’ve been waiting for you to come talk to us,” said Kurt. “You’ve been really distant lately, and not just because of Quinn.”

“I know. I’ve been – I met some people here who helped me see that. I’ve lost my focus, lost sight of what’s really important.” She took a deep breath. “I’m finally seeing what I’ve become, and I don’t like that woman, Kurt.”

“Rachel, we’ll talk more when you come home, alright? Not meaning to cut you off like this, but this isn’t the best thing to talk about on the phone, and anyway I think you need a hug first.”

“Sure. Thanks, Kurt.”

“No problem. Now, about Santana…?”

“Oh, yes.” She blushed – she’d _completely_ forgotten about her reason for calling Kurt in the first place. “I can’t make it back to New York tonight. There aren’t any flights out of Mustique.”

“What.”

“I might just need to swim back to Barbados,” joked Rachel.

“Don’t even joke about that. Seawater would destroy your hair, but more importantly, you wouldn't even make it halfway; we both know you haven't an athletic bone in your body. Unless you're counting the time you dated that Olympic gymnast...” said Kurt.

“Kurt! That was terrible. Also, _you_ dated the gymnast.”

“... Oh, _right_. I stand corrected.”

“Kurt, focus. I've already gotten sidetracked once.”

“Yes, okay. So. Stuck in Mustique… You can't arrange alternative transport?”

“The manager is asking around as we speak. I've got my fingers crossed, but the wait is killing me. I've wasted so much time, Kurt, and I've been so stupid and blind.”

“At least you're making it up for it now,” he said tactfully.

Rachel sighed; there was a time he would have never let her forget she had screwed up, and she told him so. Kurt just laughed.

“You've mellowed.”

“Being a dad does that to you.” There was thumping on Kurt’s end, and then an earsplitting screech of _Daddyyyy_ , as though Livy needed to remind him of that fact. “Damn. Sorry, Rachel; Livy’s woken up from her nap and she doesn't sound happy. I've got to go.”

“Of course,” said Rachel. “Send her – and Blaine – my love. I’ll keep you posted regarding my flight arrangements. Love you.”

“Always, Rachel Berry,” he said before hanging up.

* * *

The time ticked on. She certainly _wasn't_ going to sit in the hotel bar all day. She was Rachel Berry, and she had plans for the most important thing – no; person, not _thing_ – in her life, and she would swim to Barbados if she had to, her hair be damned.

When her phone rang, she practically flew to the reception desk – only for her heart to sink when she saw an apologetic-looking David waiting for her. “I'm really sorry, Ms. Berry. We’ve checked with all the yacht owners we could reach and they're either occupied or not going that way.”

She sighed. “... I see. Thank you anyway for your help, David.” It clicked then why she was finding him so familiar; Rachel smiled weakly, recalling the incident a week ago when he had been the one to break the news that her suite was not yet ready. With a rueful laugh, she added: “I promise I'm not going to throw my phone at you again, if that's what you're afraid of.”

He laughed but the tension went out of his shoulders. Rachel sighed, and made a mental note to tip him generously when she checked out.

* * *

Back in her room, Rachel got out her planner and started calling people.

Cara was informed that there would be changes to her duties starting from when Rachel got back to New York – which, she hoped, was within the next few days. Hugh, her agent, was briefed that apart from the two musicals she’d already signed on for, she wouldn't be interested in new projects until further notice (“If they really want Rachel Berry, they can wait for her to be good and ready,” she said tersely. “After all, I’ve got a reputation for being a diva already; we wouldn’t want to disappoint them.”). Her publicist, Emily, was told to start cutting back on her appearances.

She’d just gotten off the phone with Kurt again (she’d actually spent most of it listening to Livy’s happy babbling) when there was a knock at her door. “About time,” said Rachel, sliding off her bed, “I ordered from room service an hour ago – ”

“Hello, Rachel,” said a very familiar man. “Room service it is, though not the edible kind – unless you’re desperate, of course. I’ll let myself in, don't worry about it.”

“It’s too early,” said Rachel dumbly, even as she stepped to the side to let him in, following after to the chaise lounge. He took the very centre of the lounge, sprawling over the seat like he belonged there.

“Nonsense. I'm doing you a favour. You want to go home tonight, don't you?” he purred, and it struck her.

“The flights. The ferry... You did this. You're keeping me here.”

He looked surprised. “Flights? What are you talking about? You’re making me sound like some eldritch being, with the power to make an entire island conveniently forget that the flights are running as per normal, that the ferries are due daily as they have been for the past 10 years, that every private operator has his yacht docked for the entire day...” The man trailed off, smirking.

It was a sign that she had completely resigned herself to playing along with his games when Rachel didn’t explode in outrage. She merely sighed. “Why?”

“Three wishes, sweetheart. You’ve got one more.” She hated how he dominated his surroundings, making himself completely at ease – even in her safe space. It unnerved her.  

“Don’t call me that.”

“Ms. Berry then. What is your last wish?” He nodded at the chair to his left; Rachel was standing behind it, her hand white-knuckled on the back rest. “For goodness’ sake, sit down. You’re not the hired help.”

Rachel ignored him. “Can I – ”

“In your own terms, it’s a package deal,” he said, “and there’s no cancellation policy.”

She frowned. “I can just… wish for something else, can't I?”

"Of course you can.” The man turned his attention to his cuticles, examining them meticulously until the long silence drew Rachel’s full attention. “But I have a feeling that you don't want to,” he said slyly.

“What I want and what I do aren’t always the same thing.” This was an important part of Rachel’s life; she had known what she’d wanted in life, and she’d understood what she needed to do to get it. It wasn't easy, of course; Rachel was a teenager, not a miniature adult. Of course she would rather be hanging out in the Lima Bean with her friends, chatting the lazy summer’s day away, but instead she was in the dance studio or vocal class. She was on her elliptical at 6AM instead of catching an extra hour’s sleep. She was slushied for taking school seriously, for unnerving her peers with her self-discipline and focus.

“True,” he responded – even though Rachel was certain he had read what was on her mind, and was replying to that. “But frankly – as a woman who seizes opportunities with both hands – would you throw this final chance away?”

She folded. “I wouldn’t.”

“Exactly.”

“But… I don’t think I can live another of those lives,” she croaked.

“That depends on what you wish for, doesn’t it?” There was an altogether-too-smug note in his voice that set Rachel on edge, but she decided not to push it.

Instead, Rachel was silent for a moment. “I never imagined – I can’t believe she would do that. I never wished for that to happen.”

“You never specified.”

“I’ll be sure to bear that in mind; thank you for the advice. Let’s not waste any more time. So, my last wish.”

“Finally.” He got to his feet, brushing the creases out of his pants.

Rachel nodded absently. She stood up, squaring her shoulders, and ran through her vocal exercises as though she was preparing to go onstage.

(“You can't be serious,” grunted the man, shoving his hands into his pockets.)

She turned her attention back to him, offering her hand for a firm shake.

* * *

**The Third Night**

* * *

She honestly didn't understand why she had been brought to this point in her life. Rachel had wished she would “get it right this time”, but had been expecting to be taken back exactly nine days ago. The farthest stretch would have been two years ago, after she and Jesse had gotten divorced, and she’d only just rekindled her friendship with Quinn.

But instead, Rachel found herself getting ready for what her worried fathers reminded her was her first day of high school. Ever.

The blue argyle sweater vest, button-up white ruffled blouse, and black checked skirt (god, no wonder she’d gotten slushied so much as a freshman) she remembered wearing on her first (real first) day years ago hangs over the back of the chair in her room. Rachel spends a good five minutes standing and contemplating the outfit, still in her underwear.

In the end, she decides _to heck with it, I'm here to get it right after all_ and tosses the outfit back, pulling out a more normal teenage ensemble of jeans, plain blouse, and neutral-coloured cardigan (she forgoes the skirt because it’ll make her look like a librarian; _so_ not the look she is going for).

(She _does_ pack a slushie kit in case history decides to repeat itself.)

Her daddy, Hiram, is waiting for her downstairs. “Good morning, princess. You look beautiful.”

Rachel smiles. “Thank you, Daddy.”

“Your breakfast is ready.” He nods at the tofu scramble on the table opposite from him, going back to his toast and coffee. “Dad had to leave early for his shift but he sends his love, and asked me to ask you to be ready to give us a blow-by-blow account of your first day of high school.”

“Daddy!” she says laughingly. “It’s only high school. Besides, it’s not like I haven’t done this since kindergarten. I’m not a baby anymore.”

“You’ll always be our baby girl.” He grins at her. “Finish that up; we’ll have to leave soon, if I want to drop you off on my way to the office.”

Rachel nods. She quickly finishes her food and clears the breakfast table, leaving the plates in the sink to soak. Shouldering her bag, she follows Hiram out the door and into the neat Fiesta parked outside. It’s nice, seeing the old car again; after Hiram retired in her first life, he sold it off for scrap. It was still around in her last life; she’d seen it when she’d gone back to Lima for the funeral.

“Baby girl?”

She realises she has yet to close the passenger door, just staring straight ahead. Hiram is halfway into the driver’s seat. “Rachel? Is everything alright?”

Rachel shakes her head. “I’m fine, Daddy,” she lies, “I just spaced out for a moment, wondering what to do for tonight’s MySpace cover. I was thinking of arranging a medley from _Pippin_.”

The worry on his face eases. “That sounds lovely,” he says as she shuts the door and puts on her seatbelt. Hiram starts the ignition and pulls out into the street. “I’m sure it’ll sound amazing, as always.”

The ride to school is silent, apart from the easy listening music from the radio; Hiram’s choice. Rachel always lets him choose the music when she’s riding in his car – one of their family rules, unchanged in each one of her lives. Though he does shoot her a last worried look as he kisses her cheek and bids her a good first day, Hiram drops her off at school without further comment.

McKinley High looks as shabby as she remembers it to be, and Rachel steels herself as she walks through the front doors.

The corridors buzz with gangly teenage versions of people she hasn't seen in years, and people she doesn't even remember. Rachel is pleasantly surprised to see people she vaguely remembers from middle school wave at her and mouth ‘hello’s. Brittany actually comes over to talk excitedly about how happy she is to see Rachel hasn’t gone away to be with her own kind (“The Habits with hairy feet, from that show with wizards and elves that Santana likes to watch but says I can’t tell anyone else that she does”). There are no slushies, even; she remembers being slushied on her first day by a pack of grinning jocks, a gawky Noah Puckerman trailing in their wake, shooting her an apologetic glance as he goes…

(She remembers they were friends, kind of, in middle school; united over awkward compulsory interactions outside school at Temple, being the same age and thus stuck keeping each other company.)

Then the jocks round the corner, laughing and talking, and she braces herself.

They ignore her completely.

Rachel cracks open one eye, then the other, just in time to see Noah give her a strange look. “Hello, Noah,” she says, and he nods at her, quickening his pace to catch up with the older boys.

She can almost feel the universe groaning as it shifts gears, setting a new sequence of events into motion. Or perhaps that was a line from one of the shows she’s done? It’s certainly cliche enough. There was this phase she went through where she was hell bent on snagging that Best Actress Tony, and so she had snapped up each and every show that would have her as the lead; Rachel was doing two or three shows a day, fueled by green smoothies and protein bars.

Only the combined efforts of Santana and Quinn (and every last drop of Cheerio bitchiness they possessed) had snapped her out of her suicide by show; just like old times.

By the time she comes back fully to the present, she’s getting some very weird looks from the students left in the hallway.

The next part is new. Rachel remembers spending the rest of her morning frantically scrubbing blue ice out of her clothes and crying, distraught by the shocking orientation to the high school social hierarchy. This time, however, Rachel continues to her locker to find the books for her first class. She exchanges a few more greetings with other friends she has known since middle school; Mike Chang (she’d forgotten he used to wear glasses until he started playing football and didn't want to look like a nerd). Artie Abrams. Even a very quiet Kurt Hummel smiles nervously at her (she greets him warmly, knowing that he’s still struggling with his sexuality at this point and could use her silent support).

She even spies Tina, skulking around the corner, as she ducks into what looks like her first class of the year. Rachel makes a mental note to find a moment to talk to her, determined to cement a friendship that she cherished greatly in the last life.

Everything is as she remembers it to be – except for one minor detail.

Santana and Brittany are leaning up against the lockers, chatting. She throws caution to the wind and goes up to them. “Hello, Santana, Brittany. Have you seen Quinn?”

Santana stares blankly at her. “First of all, Tiny, I wonder where you got it into that thick skull of yours that you're allowed to talk to me. Secondly, who the hell is Quinn?”

“Finn’s over there,” chirps Brittany, pointing down the hallway; he’s still indistinct from the crowd of students, a growth spurt or two away from his adult height, but still very much Finn Hudson.

Rachel opens her mouth, and then closes it. She has to tread carefully. “Not Finn. Quinn Fabray. Pretty blonde girl?” she says, growing steadily less confident with every word.

“Brittany’s the prettiest blonde I know.” Santana slams her locker shut, narrowly missing Rachel’s face, and then pushes past her. “Come on, Britt. We’ll be late. I swear, everytime I think Berry can't get any crazier, she surprises me,” Rachel hears her mutter as she disappears into the crowd.

Rachel takes a deep breath, and then another. This can't be happening.

* * *

 “We have no transfer freshman students from Belleville Middle School this year, sweetie.” The kindly administrative assistant looks up from her computer. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No, thank you; you've been very helpful.” She adjusts her grip on her binder, hoping the movement hides her little involuntary gasp. “Excuse me, I need to go to my next class.”

Well, that tears it. Quinn was taken from her too soon in the most recent life, and it looks like she’s got a way to go before she’ll see Quinn again. The prospect of high school, college, and the rest of her life stretches before her. Rachel wants to scream.

* * *

 Her freshman year passes quickly enough, with minimal changes. She fills it with activities and friends (some of the time; Rachel forgot how mean and defensive younger Kurt was, how cutting younger Mercedes was). Her plans and dreams remain unchanged, as do the MySpace videos and the elliptical workouts.

She’s surprisingly okay with living her life again; Rachel’s always been somewhat of a control freak, and the opportunity to go back and do things over again doesn't come every day.

And so she takes each day as it comes. She finds out that she shares an AP Algebra class with Matt Rutherford, and that he tells the best lame jokes about their teacher’s hair. She learns that Tina dresses the way she does so she doesn't get stereotyped like every other Asian kid. She learns that while music is her life, she’s also perfectly okay with spending an afternoon sitting in Breadstix and doing nothing with her friends instead of hurrying home to prepare her daily video upload.

(Her MySpace page remains free of Cheerio-driven verbal abuse. She’s relieved, of course, but she can’t help but be impressed by the lengths teenage Quinn went to show the world that she absolutely, positively, _hated_ Rachel Berry.)

* * *

 By the time her sophomore year arrives, she’s grown accustomed to both being a normal teenager, and these younger versions of her friends. Matt moves away because of his father’s job, but she has weekly three-way MSN Messenger conversations with him and Mike, mostly so they can send each other things for their dumb Facebook multiplayer games.

Rachel _does_ get Sandy Ryerson out of McKinley and Glee club in, and Mr. Schue works his magic to get the newly-appointed football team quarterback Finn Hudson to join. He’s dating Cheerios captain Santana Lopez (the youngest Cheerios captain in McKinley’s history), a power couple Rachel isn’t too interested in breaking up.

(She’s rocking the single life, and anyway, teenage Finn wasn't at his best.)

Finn brings Santana (and Brittany, by extension) into the club, but only because Santana likes to sing and she doesn’t care if anyone knows, and Brittany’s only too happy to follow her best friend.

Under Santana’s rule, slushies are reserved exclusively for Jacob Ben Israel (because he’s the only one who annoys her weekly and doesn’t seem to be deterred by her threats of violence), but Noah Puckerman still insists on pretending to throw one at Rachel every now and then “to keep her on her toes”. One afternoon, she loses her patience with him and smacks the bottom of the cup, getting half of the contents on him. Puck stomps off, but much later he confesses that he was impressed by her nerve, and buys her a smoothie as an apology.

Sometimes Rachel pushes too hard in Glee, and Santana retaliates with threats of bodily violence and insults, but eventually even those stop as both she and Santana get accustomed to each other, especially since Rachel’s newfound chill earns her support from her clubmates.

* * *

 A world without Quinn Fabray certainly isn’t dull, though Rachel feels the girl’s absence keenly each day. Santana dumps Finn (with a Kelly Clarkson power ballad, no less; Rachel is impressed) in Glee to hook up with Puck, seemingly not caring about her cheerleading-captain-dating-the-quarterback status like Quinn did. Finn kicks over a few chairs but gets over it quickly enough with a string of Cheerio girls.

The Cheerios, as a whole, are open-minded but responsible when it comes to sex, under Santana and Brittany’s leadership.  Puck gets shoved out of a room, pants around his ankles, after Santana catches him attempting to persuade Brittany to “love without a glove”, and that is the end of _that_ relationship.

(They're still friends, but it takes Rachel quite a while to forgive Puck for that stunt.)

Rachel doesn't know whether to be relieved or sad that Beth won't exist in this world. On one hand, Quinn’s pregnancy stirred up a whole mess of issue that wouldn’t be out of place in a television drama, but she saw how good Beth was for Shelby. She and Shelby had actually rekindled an acquaintanceship of sorts in later years – mainly out of Quinn’s desire to reconnect with the child she’d never known, and Rachel had wanted to be there for her closest friend.

(The odd dynamic that had normally-strict Shelby pandering to Rachel’s whims over long-standing guilt didn’t hurt either. Rachel mostly used her powers to get Quinn more time with Beth, anyway.)  
  
In any case, things are out of her hands. She sits in Glee to watch Mercedes and Kurt perform a hilarious version of _Anything You Can Do_ , opening her mouth for the first time since the club meeting started to compliment them on their breath control and technique. It warms her heart to hear them thank her enthusiastically without a hint of sarcasm. 

* * *

She strolls down the hallway, chatting merrily with Tina about hair care (Tina’s been trying to get her to try coloured hair extensions for a week now, but Rachel’s still paranoid about doing anything to her hair) when they spot the person milling around Rachel’s locker.

“Finn. Hi,” says Rachel.

“Hey, Rach.”

Tina’s eyes slide between them, and then she says, “Uh, I’ve g-got a class now so… I’ll t-talk to you later, R-Rachel?”

“See you later, Tina,” calls Rachel, then focuses her attention on Finn. “Can I help you, Finn?”

“Um – I guess? I don’t know, I just wanted to ask you if, uh, you had plans for Friday night?”

The corners of her mouth lifted into a smile. She’d almost forgotten how adorable Finn could be – had been – when they were teenagers, and she had practically worshipped the ground he walked on.

God, _that_ had been an embarrassing phase.

“No, I don’t have anything planned for Friday night,” she says. Finn relaxed a little.

“Oh. Okay, great. Uh, not that it’s great that you’re not doing anything, because I was wondering if you’d like to go out with me?” He pauses to grin at her, and then presses on: “There’s this awesome spy movie opening and I thought we could go catch that, or if you don’t like movies we could go bowling – I remember you said the other day in Glee that you wanted to learn how to bowl.”

“Finn, I’d love to go out with you,” laughs Rachel, “though I am a little concerned that you seem to have picked up my habit of rambling.”

He laughs awkwardly, running a hand through his hair; the familiar gesture sends a pang of nostalgia through Rachel’s body. “I guess… so, I’ll pick you up at six?”

“I’m looking forward to it. See you in Glee later?”

“Yeah, later. Uh – you’ve got Spanish with Mr. Schue now, right? Can I walk you there? It’s on my way to my math class.”

“Certainly.” He falls in step with her and starts telling her all about his football practice.

* * *

Dating Finn again is strange. She enjoys spending time with him (she always has, in every single lifetime) but the spark – or at least her determination to win him over – is absent. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem too put out when Rachel suggests they remain friends because there’re other girls that have caught his eye; he doesn’t say this, of course, but she comes to that conclusion when she sees him smiling his goofy smile at Jenn Waterton in the hallway three days after they break up, a smile that used to be directed at her.

(She can only postulate that she’s less interesting to him now that he isn’t being fought over by the head Cheerio, and the reigning Slushie Queen and Glee club loser.)

Boyfriend or friend, he’s still an excellent leading man, and that’s all she cares to know as she sings a haunting duet version of Vienna Teng’s _Harbour_ with Finn.

* * *

Although they take a while to shape up into a competitive show choir thanks to her newfound relaxed attitude to practice, New Directions still manages to qualify for Sectionals in her sophomore year, bringing Shelby Corcoran and Jesse St. James back into her orbit.

She greatly enjoys her spontaneous duet with Jesse, and she now knows better than to leap headfirst into his (unsubtle, with the benefit of hindsight) advances, and thus avoids the egg bath. In her reality, it took years – and significant growth on Jesse’s part – for her to forgive him for that to the point of marrying him.

Right now, she has better things to do with her time than carrying on a secret romance with Jesse St. James. Like giggling over magazines with Tina. Or letting Mike beat her at Dance Dance Revolution (and then Artie wipes the floor with them both, playing with his hands). Helping Brittany pass her English class so she doesn’t have to attend summer school (which also earns her points in Santana’s good books).

But strictly speaking, she’s never really forgiven Jesse for everything he’s done – in her real life, at least. Despite being one if the very few genuinely straight men on Broadway, Jesse wasn't in love with her, and she with him. She’d only married him out of a lingering despair over Finn, and the fear that she was going to die alone because the only person in her life that ever truly loved her was dead (or so she thought, as it turned out).

Jesse was – well, _Jesse_ – and he understood that Rachel, for all her self-confidence and ambitions, needed someone to love her because no matter how much of herself she poured into her music, her music couldn’t love her back.

Sometimes, Rachel really, _really_ hates how she makes everything so complicated.

* * *

 (On the day Quinn is supposed to tell her she’ll never get it right, Rachel spends the afternoon sitting by the auditorium’s piano in the dark.

“I'm still trying,” she whispers.)

* * *

She keeps her nose because Quinn’s not here to tell her to, and anyway she knows she’ll succeed in spite of it (suck on _that_ , Cassandra July). Tina sings the mashup with her, and although it’s lovely (vocally, Tina is a better singer than Quinn), it’s not quite the same.

But singing with Tina is fun, and they work well together.

Much to everyone’s surprise (especially hers), she starts dating Puck after he admits he’s had a soft spot for her ever since the last time he attempted to slushie her. It’s fun – working out this little niggling crush she’s had for him for as long as she can remember – but it’s uncomplicated. She likes him, he likes her, and they’re too young and immature for things like _being in love_ and _forever_ anyway.

* * *

Rachel doesn’t understand (she’s starting to think she’s not quite as smart as she thinks she is, seeing that this is the third time she’s living her life and she’s no closer to understanding why she does the things she does).

“Noah?”

He stirs. “Yeah, babe?”

“We’ve been dating for most of our senior year, and…” She pushes up a little out of his arms to look at him properly. “... what’s going to happen to us?”

Noah starts to laugh, stopping and clearing his throat when Rachel glares at him. “Sorry, Rachel, but… seriously? You’re asking me this, like now?” The arm he has around her waist tightens, his fingers stroking over her (clothed) hip. “I thought it was kinda obvious, and y’know the Puckster isn’t the smartest nerd around.”

“I do wish you’d stop referring to yourself in the third person, and with such horrendous nicknames,” she sighs, but snuggles back into his side. “We’re dating, yes, and doing a lot more than just dating – ” (“The horizontal tango,” says Puck, waggling his eyebrows, and is smacked for his trouble) “ – but we’re graduating in a few months. I’ll be headed to New York for college.”

He sighs. “I’m not – I know what you’re asking, but I’m a small town kinda guy, babe. I care about you, way more than any other girl I’ve been with.”

“I’m not asking you to follow me.”

“I know you’re not. You’re really annoying in the sense you want me to be happy, pursuing my dreams, and all that bullshit, but I told you; I can make it anywhere.”

She cups his cheek. “Noah…”

“Y’know… before we got together, I knew I was never gonna amount to anything,” he says softly. “I hate my old man for leaving us, but deep down I hated myself too ‘cause I knew I was gonna end up just like him. Knocking up some chick from school, marrying her, getting drunk because we were fighting every night, watching her hate me more with every passing day until I walk out on them or she throws me out.” Puck laughs awkwardly. “But you’re different, Berry. You make me feel like I could be a real decent guy, like I could pick myself up and make something outta my life, away from this cow town.”

Rachel shakes her head. “You always could have, with or without me around to tell you that.”

“Shh. I’m making that dramatic speech those dudes in your dumb romcoms always do. You dig that shit, right?”

She giggles in spite of herself; he’s right, but she won’t give him the satisfaction of being proven so. “Fine. Continue.”

He glances at her and smirks. “I’m not gonna follow you to New York like a lovesick puppy just because it’s romantic and shit; that isn’t Puckzilla’s style. I’m not gonna stay and die in this hick town either. I’m taking each day as it comes, and then after we get that diploma, I’ll decide what I’m gonna do with my life.” Puck’s arm tightens around her waist. “And if New York’s where I’m supposed to be, that’s where I’ll go.”

Rachel sighs. “Okay,” she says, resting her chin on his chest. “I was afraid that you’d abandon your dreams to follow me.”

“You think too much of yourself, babe,” he drawls, and grunts when she presses her chin down, _hard_.

“You’re an idiot, Noah Puckerman.”

He laughs. “And what does that make you, Berry?”

“A bigger idiot.” She stares at him until he chuckles awkwardly.

“What?”

“You were always so commitment-phobic, for almost as long as I’ve known you. And look at you; planning for what you’re going to do after graduation,” teases Rachel. “Clearly, I’ve been a huge influence on you.”   

Puck shrugs. “Yeah, okay. No need to make a big deal out of it.”

“No need to make a big deal?” she repeats incredulously. “Do you even know me, Noah?”

“Hey, I do; that’s why I’m telling you not to make a big deal.” He laughs when she rolls her eyes at him, and kisses her pout away.

* * *

 As expected, she aces her NYADA audition and gets her acceptance letter in the mail. Puck does some research and concludes Los Angeles is where it’s at, if he wants to seriously pursue his pool-cleaning business (and by research, it’s a quick Google search instigated by Rachel). He chooses not to go to college, but decides on taking a few distance-learning business management courses (also at Rachel’s instigation).

He sees her off at the airport, one hand shoved into the pockets of his jeans, the other holding out an envelope. “You forgot to pack this,” says Puck, his mouth curving into a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“What is it?”

“Open it and find out.”

She quickly slits it open and pulls out a slightly rumpled sheet of ruled notebook paper. _New York Bucket List_ , says the heading in her neat cursive.

(They'd spent most of the summer before senior year writing it, together with a Graduation Bucket List for Puck, “so we won’t lose sight of the important things in life,” he’d told her.)

“Noah.”

“You’ll take New York by storm,” he says. “You’ll be so famous that I’ll hear all about you all the way on the west coast, and I’ll tell everyone I know that I totally tapped that in high school.”

“... is this your incredibly crude way of telling me we’re over?” asks Rachel, laughing a little through her tears.

He shrugs. “Think of it as being on a break. If we’re truly meant to be, we’ll find each other again, like the people in your sappy-ass movies do. Shit, Berry, don’t cry.” Puck pulls her into him. “You gotta do this. You’ll make a fresh start in your city without anyone tying you down.”

“It’s not too late to change my mind,” she says, half-joking, “I’ll go to LA with you, I’ll even stay here and make it work.”

“Yeah, ‘kay. I know you don't mean that at all. Broadway and New York’s been a part of you for so long, Rach; you ignoring it is like cutting your insides out. You’ll end up resenting me after a coupla years, and we’ll be that dead-end couple we said we’d never be.”

She has to laugh. “How is it that you’ve become the sensible one?”

“Don’t have a choice when Rachel Berry starts talking crazy shit like not wanting _New York_.” He kisses her forehead. “Call me when you land. Take care, babe.”

* * *

She hasn't been abandoned. Definitely not. She's just been reminded of what her dreams are, and the difficult decisions along the way have been made for her.

Rachel turns her thoughts towards her present, and can’t stop the grin that spreads over her face the minute she sets foot in LaGuardia. The people in her lives may vary, but her love affair with New York remains unchanged.

She isn't allowed to room with Kurt (he was accepted on the basis of his audition, something she’d always suspected was a close decision) so they go ahead with the Bushwick loft. She pays the rent out of her own pocket, lying to Kurt that her dads are generously supporting them (what’s the point of going back in time repeatedly if she’s not going to take advantage of the stock market? Rachel’s investment broker practically worships the ground she walks on, and she’ll be lying if she says it isn't flattering at all).

Santana follows them to New York from the start, tight-lipped and watery-eyed after breaking up with Brittany after graduation, but refusing to say a word about her ex to either of them.

* * *

She does meet Brody, but it’s not while she’s grudgingly inhabiting NYADA’s dorms; it’s when he approaches her after the Freshman Reaping to tell her she’s easily the most talented student in her cohort, and _wow I can’t believe I haven’t introduced myself, how rude of me; hi I’m Brody Weston_.

He’s fun to be around; so much so that she doesn't bother asking what an upperclassman like him is doing at a freshman event where he clearly knows no one else. He keeps up an endless stream of compliments, and it’s a massive ego boost to have someone as attractive as Brody lavish her with attention. Finn was never the sort who was good at sweet-talking, and neither was Quinn or Noah or (the very idea makes her laugh) Cassie. Now she knows better than to eat up every single word, and she can play at his game. 

* * *

So, there should be some sort of law wherein she doesn’t have to spend a torturous year under Cassandra July’s tutelage because that’s one of the few events that hasn’t varied for each of her three lives; not even counting her first time as a genuinely distraught freshman. Because okay, she’s definitely got the experience and knowledge and flexibility to sail through the class. She’s faced down Cassie’s insults with a smile on her face and a song in her heart. She doesn’t need to prove herself time and again.

This time, she’s got a very interested TA in the form of Brody Weston who’s actively trying to win her over, and Cassie is _not_ pleased that it’s happening in front of her.

Hence her current situation; Rachel is – against her better judgement – agreeing to be Brody’s partner so she can get through the class. He’s an excellent dancer, and she’s fantastic, and she just _really_ needs to survive her fourth round with Crazy Cassandra July.

(There’s also the minor factor that she was dating this woman for close to five years before her accident in that past life, and she still has feelings for her despite knowing this isn’t _her_ Cassie.)

Brody’s smooth compliments and strong broad chest helps her take her mind off it.

* * *

 Brody asks her out after they jointly wow Cassie’s socks off (not that she was wearing socks, or if she even let on that she was wowed) and Rachel accepts. It’s nothing special, she tells herself; he’s fun and familiar, and it doesn’t have to be serious. She’s only killing time.

“Where have you been all my life?” says Brody, waggling his eyebrows at her until she laughs and smacks at his shoulder.

“Going through puberty and making sure you wouldn’t be arrested for pedophilia,” she retorts.

“I’m not that old.”

“You could’ve fooled me; your pickup lines are.”

He grins, exposing even and perfect white teeth, and takes a sip of his gin and tonic. “Touché. I’ve gotta say, Rachel, you’re the most amazing woman I’ve ever met. You’re beautiful, and smart, an amazing dancer, and that voice…” He shakes his head. “I’ve never heard anyone sing like that. You’re funny, fascinating, confident… I could go on.”

“And you’re being ridiculous.”

“No, no!” He touches her arm. “I mean every word of it. I’ve dated a lot of women, but none of them have been as incredible as you. It’s hard to believe you’re single.”

Rachel gazes at him. “So what do you want, Brody? A relationship? Sex?”

“Another thing I love about you,” he says with a wry smile. “Direct. Yes, Rachel. I want you, and I’m guessing you want me too. I see that potential that we have. I want to see how we’ll go from here.”

She smirks. “Well, I think we can reach an agreement. My place or yours?”

* * *

They end up in Bushwick after quick phone calls reveal that Kurt’s in class and Santana’s at work. She finds that Brody is a fantastic lover – now that she’s gotten enough experience to adequately compare and reciprocate.

“That was amazing,” he gasps. “Are you sure you’re nineteen? Because I’ve never done _that_ before. Never even imagined it was a thing, you naughty girl.”

Rachel rolls her eyes. “Are you sure you're twenty-two? You suck at post-coital talk.”

“Sorry,” says Brody, not sounding sorry at all. “Post-coital talk? First time I heard it put that way. Who knew talking like a thesaurus is sexy. What time is it?”

She clambers over him to grab her phone. “Four-thirty.”

“Shit. I’ve got to go.” Brody climbs out of bed and starts pulling his clothes back on. “I totally forgot that I’m taking Cassie’s class this afternoon.”

“How many of her classes are you taking?”

“Just two. It’s already a handful, with my regular classes, and my audition circuit.” He rolls up his shirt sleeves and pauses at the curtain. “So… I’ll see you around?”

Rachel looks up at him from checking her messages on her phone, now wearing an oversized flannel that she stole from Puck, and panties. “What?”

“We’ll still see each other, yeah?” asks Brody again, walking over to her. “If you… that is, if you’re okay with that.”

She contemplates him. “I don’t know. I just got out of a relationship, and I’m not looking for anything right now. I’m just a college freshman and it’s my first time in New York,” she says honestly, and waits for the backlash.

To her surprise, Brody nods. “I get it. We don’t have to rush into anything.” He bends to kiss her forehead. “I’ll see you when I see you? We can take things slow, or not at all; you’ve got my number, call me if you wanna have a drink or something more.” He smirks at her.

Rachel nods. “I can do that. Thanks for understanding.”

“Anytime, Rachel.”

After he leaves, the weight of what she’s done sinks in. She had no idea that it was this easy to do this – _physical gratification_ – without real feelings involved.

* * *

When Cassie tries to hit back at her for flirting unabashedly with Brody, Rachel confronts her in her studio and ends up, five hours later, naked and panting in Cassie’s plush bedroom. It’s familiar; Cassie isn’t afraid to be rough. The fucking – because that's all it is – lacks any warmth or emotion; exactly like how it was in the early stages of their relationship.

There’s just physical attraction. It’s fun, and that’s all Rachel is capable of right now.

When they're done, Cassie sits up in bed, frowning. “That's weird.”

“Come on, I'm sure I'm not the first male _or_ female student you've slept with,” replies Rachel. She props herself up on an elbow to smirk at her.

“No, not that. Fuck you for insulting my intelligence, Ohio. I meant that I know that this is the first time I've found you acceptably attractive enough to sleep with, and that you're a freshman; this is your first time in New York, let alone NYADA…”

A spike of panic flares in Rachel’s chest. “Hurry up and get to the point.”

“Have we… slept together before? I don't know – I'm probably still hallucinating after that last Green Fairy we had at the bar, but I could’ve sworn that you knew exactly what I wanted before I could tell you, and then afterwards, you told me…” Cassie waves a hand dismissively. “Forget it. I'm hungover.”

“Yes, probably,” agrees Rachel, slowly releasing the breath she’s been holding. “... I have to go.”

“Whatever. See yourself out, I’m not leaving this fucking bed until tomorrow. And wipe that smirk off your face, Schwimmer; you're not _that_ good.”

“Fine. See you around,” says Rachel smugly, adding an extra sashay to her walk, knowing Cassie’s watching her go.

* * *

Puck picks up on the third ring. “Hi, babe.”

“Hi, Noah.”

“What’s up?”

“Nothing much. I missed you.”

“Me too. Did something happen?”

“No. What makes you think something happened?”

“Just a hunch.”

“... I don’t really want to talk about it. Can we talk about something else? How’s Los Angeles?”

“Yeah, sure. It’s great. Hot as balls, but that means great business for me. I’ve hired a kid. He has to call me Boss Man and he drives the truck. It’s great. You should come see on your next break.”

“I’d love to. It sounds great.”

* * *

So she’s sleeping with both Brody _and_ Cassie (and the occasional one-night fling), and Rachel wonders if she’s doing the right thing. She remembers this period of her sexual awakening, when she was hell-bent on shedding her old image in pursuit of big-city glamour. This… is an awakening of sorts, she supposes. She just thinks that it shouldn’t feel this empty.

Rachel tells herself that she’s young and reckless, and she’s just passing time until she gets to see Quinn again.

She actually contemplated shortening the wait. She went to the top of the highest building she could find, and stood at the edge. It terrified her, and she’d stumbled back to safety, promptly throwing up on the ground.

She can’t.

* * *

Kurt calls an intervention. “We’re worried about you, Rachel,” he says with a frown. “You stay out all night and then do the walk of shame in here, several days a week.”

“Yeah, it totally grosses me out.”

“ _Santana_.”

“What? Like you aren't dry-heaving behind that flimsy curtain of yours, knowing that Berry’s got more dick than you have ever gotten in your life, even counting Bland’s because we all know that’s tiny.”

“And how do you know that? On second thought, don't answer that.” He shudders exaggeratedly.

“I wouldn't touch Cody Gaypants if I had cancer and his dick was the cure. I'm just saying that all that polished Ken grooming is _definitely_ overcompensating for something.”

Kurt glares at her, his hands on his hips; Rachel quickly averts the bloodbath with a loud, “Focus, guys. My intervention? For my deplorable, slutty ways?”

He sends one last death glare at Santana before continuing: “Adam and Lewis say you don’t pay attention in class, and I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you study, but somehow you seem to know everything.” He pauses, and adds, with a touch of envy: “You're pretty near the top of the class, actually.”

Rachel squirms a little in her seat. She appreciates what Kurt and Santana are doing for her, she really does, but they’ve picked the wrong night for it; she’s a little sore and very filthy after Cassie decided to introduce some toys from her online shopping spree into the bedroom. “I’m sorry, but could we do this another night? I would really like to take a shower and get some sleep.”

“And then what? You’ll continue avoiding us?” barks Santana. “I’ve known you long enough not to fall for that, hobbit.”

She flushes despite herself. “I'm not avoiding you guys. I promise.”

Santana snorts, crossing her arms over her chest. She exchanges a look with Kurt, who nods, and then sighs. “Fine. I don’t have to be at work until seven tomorrow. Kurt?”

“I can be back here by two.”

“I've got the day off tomorrow,” says Rachel. “I’ll be here. I promise.”

* * *

By two-thirty in the afternoon, they've all reconvened in the living room, sitting comfortably. For some reason, Santana has brought snacks and beer. “What?” she says to Kurt and Rachel’s incredulous stares. “This could take a while.”

“Fine, alright. Rachel, we’re concerned.”

“Hummel is. I couldn't care less about who you're boinking, but Hobie is probably a drug dealer – which would totally explain why you keep calling that booty.”

“In Santana-speak, that means she’s concerned too.”

“Brody and I aren't dating,” says Rachel. “What we have is a friends-with-benefits arrangement.”

“Rachel… that's not…”

“Not what?”

Kurt sighs. “You went from dating Finn, to a semi-serious relationship with Puck, to this – _arrangement_.”

Rachel decides this would be a good time to disclose further things to her roommates. “Actually, Brody’s not the only one I’m seeing.”

Kurt’s jaw drops; Santana whoops. “Get it, Berry,” she cackles, toasting Rachel with her beer. “Who knew there was a freak underneath all that argyle and granny sweaters, waiting to be unleashed on New York.”

“No one else we know?”

She shrugs one shoulder. “Cassie…”

“Cassie who?”

“ _Cassandra July_?!” Kurt screeches. “Rachel, you could be expelled for that!”

“Hey, is Cassandra July that smoking blonde who Colby Gaypants TA’s for? Your fucking _teacher_?” Santana laughs uproariously when Rachel nods. “Dayum, Rachel. You’re fulfilling a lot of porn fantasies.”

“I apologise for telling you both this suddenly, but I didn't want to keep secrets from you any longer,” explains Rachel, putting her hands in her lap neatly. “You're my best friends – yes, even you, Santana – and I appreciate that you're worried about me. I assure you that there is nothing to worry about. Yes, I might be uncharacteristically sexually promiscuous right now, but I'm careful with protection. This is just a period of self-exploration for me. My partners are fully aware of each other’s place in my life, and they understand that I'm not looking to pursue a committed relationship with any of them.”

(Santana snorts. “Well duh. Cassandra _fucking_ July’s your _teacher_ , and I'm pretty sure that’s violating a hell lot of rules; although you gotta share the deets on how you bagged _that_ , Rachel. _Hawt_.”)

Kurt, who’s been looking a little green ever since Rachel mentioned sleeping with Cassie, nods, looking reluctant. “If you're sure.”

“I am sure,” she smiles. Rachel rises from the couch to enfold each in a hug. “Thank you for listening, and caring enough to do this.”

“Sure, sure. Details, Berry. I wants them.” Santana follows her into her room, and then flops on her bed uninvited. “Okay, now Lady Hummel is gone, let’s have the real juicy gossip, woman to hobbit.”

“You know, Santana, you would be more successful at getting information from me if you didn't actually preface it with an insult,” says Rachel teasingly. She sits at the head of the bed, hugging a pillow.

“So I'm impatient. Bite me.”

“Gross, no.”

“Bitch.” Santana hurls a pillow at a giggling Rachel, then rolls over on her stomach to stare at her. “Look, Berry; I know we haven't exactly been buddy-buddy BFFs in school, but you know I don't completely hate you, right?”

“Of course, Santana.”

“We’ve had our differences; mainly those paint-bombed disasters you called a wardrobe, and that iron fist with which you ruled Glee. Which is totally cool, if you didn't tell me I was flat at times.”

“There’s nothing wrong with demanding perfection from you when you're certainly capable of it,” says Rachel. Santana grins at her.

“So… what's really going on? I'm sure you're not hung up on Puck or, god forbid, _Finnocence_. I didn’t even know you played a few pickup games for the other team.”

“I’m not harbouring feelings for either of them. As for my sexuality, I’m just keeping my options open; a myriad of sexual encounters is practically required for my major, and I’m not ready to commit to anything serious at this point in my life.” She shrugs. “I don’t see anything wrong as long as I take the appropriate precautions to prevent any unintended consequences.” Rachel has her pregnancy scare lurking in the back of her mind as she says this.

Santana shrugs. “Whatever you say, Rachel.” She tosses another pillow at her fondly, and stands up. “Anytime you wanna talk, I’ll pretend to listen, okay?”

Rachel can't help the eye roll that follows, nor the grin. “Thank you, Santana.”

* * *

(She dreams about Quinn. Not _her_ Quinn, God forbid; but the Quinn she said goodbye to with her hand resting on a smooth wooden casket, the Quinn she brought home to Lima to bury.

She’s in New York, on a small street that she recognises instantly; it’s the theater where she got her big break. For the entire four months of the show’s run, Quinn had waited outside the cast entrance every night to take her out for hot cocoa.

And at the cast entrance, as always, Quinn is waiting for her in her chair.

Quinn looks up, in her direction. Before Rachel can react, Quinn slowly gets up from the chair.  She takes one shaky step, and then another; looking down at her feet, bearing her weight without a tremor. The smile on her face when she looks at Rachel is heartbreakingly beautiful.

“Quinn,” says Rachel, and then she is _running_.

Quinn catches her as Rachel throws herself into her arms. Rachel inhales the scent of sunshine and strawberries, of warmth. There is familiar laughter that she _feels_ rather than hears. “Hi, Rachel.”

She responds by tightening her grip around Quinn’s neck, burrowing her face closer so she can kiss smooth skin made wet by her tears. “I’ve missed you so much,” she mutters.

“I’ve missed you too.”

Rachel pulls away so she can look up – _look up_ – into warm hazel eyes. “You left me.”

Quinn looks ashamed. “I’m sorry.”

“You can’t just – you can’t say _sorry_ and be done with it. You _killed_ yourself, Quinn. Do you know what it was like when I opened that door and found you – ” Rachel cuts herself off with a violent sob. “You ruined bathrooms for me forever. They were our thing, and I couldn’t – everything after that hurt so much.”

“I’m sorry,” repeats Quinn. Her hand caresses the side of Rachel’s face, thumb brushing away tears and loose strands of hair. “I was hurting too.”

“I know. I realised after, when Santana found the envelope.” Rachel closes a hand over Quinn’s, holding it in place. “I’m sorry I didn’t realise sooner.”

“Rachel, it’s not your fault,” says Quinn firmly. “None of the things that happened was your fault. I made mistakes; that's my cross to bear.”

“I could've stopped you!” burst out Rachel. “I could have been there to make sure you didn't – ”

“And you would have hovered at my side for the rest of our lives?”

“I would've gotten you the help you needed,” she stubbornly insists. “I would have done everything you needed me to do.”

Quinn sighs. “It’s done, Rachel. I’ve made my mistakes, and I've accepted their consequences. You shouldn't still be carrying this with you.” Her other hand comes up to cradle Rachel’s face; the other woman’s eyes flutter shut as she relishes the touch. “You said you read the contents of my envelope. Didn't you take anything away from it?”

“Yes. You said you needed to be free to make your own choices, Quinn, and I understand, but you – it hurt, knowing that it wasn't enough.”

Quinn shakes her head. “Nothing would ever have been enough. I was in a dark place, Rachel, and I was too far gone to realise it was happening.”

“I’ve wished every day that you weren’t hurting,” whispers Rachel. Her fingertips tremble as they rest on Quinn’s face, tentative as though she’s touching fragile porcelain. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Quinn rests her forehead against Rachel’s.

“Your writing was so beautiful.” Rachel’s hand drops to the small of Quinn’s back, holding her as close as physically possible, her fingers gripping the fabric of Quinn’s coat as though Quinn will disappear any moment. “I really wanted you there after I finished reading it, so I could slap you and then kiss you, you idiot. I can’t believe you were working on that instead of your novel, and you didn’t intend to let me read it.”

“But you read it anyway,” Quinn tells her, smiling gently, “and now I’m glad you did.”

“I still hate you for doing that.”

“I know.”

Quinn pulls away – chuckling when Rachel whines in protest – and starts stroking her hair. “I listened to that album you wrote. It was beautiful. You were right; I loved it, and I loved that you didn’t give up just because I was gone. I loved that you made something so wonderful out of something terrible, and that you helped so many other people through their pain.”

“You’ve been watching over me?”

“Yeah. As much as I could.”

“Oh god,” says Rachel, embarrassment colouring her face. “You totally saw…”

“You could have done worse than your dance teacher,” says Quinn. Rachel groans, her head dropping onto Quinn’s shoulder. “She was good for you. I’m glad she helped you move on.”

“Please stop talking.” She presses her nose to Quinn’s skin, closing her eyes. She doesn’t want to think about anyone else, not when she’s standing here in Quinn’s arms. Rachel can feel the heat radiating from Quinn’s skin underneath the fabric. If it’s a dream, she doesn't want to wake up.

“Am I still dreaming? Is it really you?” she wonders aloud.

She feels a kiss being dropped on the top of her head. “Rachel?”

“I’m dreaming,” says Rachel bluntly. “This is my subconscious making you up, making you say all the things I want to hear, as a way of coping with all the guilt.”

Quinn smiles. “You’re dreaming, yes,” she agrees, “but I’m as real as I ever can be; that is to say, this is the me that you loved in that lifetime, but I was never _real_.”

Rachel jerks away to gape at her.

“As adorable as that fish-out-of-water expression is, it doesn’t become you, Rachel,” comments Quinn, smiling faintly. “Also, it’s not as weird as you’re thinking it is. Everything’s in your subconscious, darling; the wishes, the other lives… everything. I’m a part of your subconscious too. Give me some credit,” she adds with a smirk, “I went to Yale.”

“You know?”

“Yeah.”

Rachel presses a hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I’ve wanted to see you again after you – _died_ – and say all these things that I wanted you to know, that I’ve been hiding from you for all the years we were together. I love you, but you’re not – ”

“I know,” interrupts Quinn quietly.

Rachel drops her gaze. “... I’m sorry.”

“For what? You’re in love with her, not me. If there’s one thing I can say that’s truly mine; when it comes to love, there’s nothing to apologise for. All of this, all of me… it all exists, because of her.”

“No, I'm not sorry for that. I’m sorry for not being in love with you. Knowing _you_ , Quinn Fabray – this you,” Rachel clarifies, stroking Quinn’s cheek, “ – has been an honour and privilege I will carry with me to the end of my days. You deserve more than you got and I did honestly love you for the short time that we were together, but – ”

“ – I’m not real, and I’m not your Quinn,” finishes Quinn for her. “I understand.” Quinn presses her lips to Rachel’s forehead, until Rachel tugs her down for a proper kiss.

“I love you,” she whispers against Quinn’s lips.

“My feelings haven’t yet changed from about fifteen minutes ago, but I love you too,” replies Quinn, smiling widely. “But, Rachel?”

“Hmm?”

“It’s time for you to go now.”

Rachel nods. Somehow, she can hear the stage manager announcing that it’s five minutes to curtain, and she needs to be there. She’s a professional, after all. “You’ll be here when I get back, won’t you?”

“Rachel,” says Quinn, half-exasperated – the way she always says her name when Rachel was being deliberately stubborn and difficult – “I’ve always been here.”

She grins. That’s true. “Kiss for luck?” says Rachel, turning towards the cast entrance.

Quinn does.)

* * *

Rachel thinks she should get some kind of award for patience. She’s waited – what? – more than a fucking _century_ to get back to Quinn. Granted, she didn't actually decide to get back to Quinn until just after the 100-year mark, but semantics.

But she can't shorten her time here. She’s been back to that deserted rooftop at least four times in the week after that dream, and spent hours just sitting on the ledge and looking down. She’s not made that way; especially not after what Quinn put her through. It doesn't matter that they weren't real, that none of _this_ is real; she _can’t_.

Knowing that red-haired bastard, though, Rachel’s certain she’ll live to be more than a hundred.

_Asshole._

* * *

Puck picks her up from Los Angeles International in a brand-new pickup truck. “The kid’s off for spring break too,” he informs her, “trying to pick up girls. I’ve taught him well.”

She snorts. “You’re a horrible influence.”

“No, I’m the greatest thing that ever happened to him. I wish I had someone to teach me how to be a badass too, but luckily it came naturally.” He’s tanned and bulky-looking, and a tattoo peeks out from under his shirt sleeve. Puck’s in his element here, and she’s glad he didn’t blindly follow her to New York.

Rachel spends the next few days in a perpetual state of undress, talking about everything and nothing at all, and kisses Puck’s cheek when he drops her off at the airport.

* * *

Santana takes to spending more time with her (and by spending more time, it means that she shows up frequently around Rachel; at work, in school, in Rachel’s room). Rachel takes the gesture of support for what it is, buying the odd mochaccino for her.

One day, Rachel dares to ask about Brittany.

Santana stirs her drink for a long, long time. “I can't – make her wait for me. _She_ can’t wait for me,” says Santana without looking up. “She’s got to focus on school, and be done with it. Britt isn't cut out for college, we all know that, so high school’s the last thing stopping her from taking the world by storm.”

Rachel nods, smiling faintly.

“I love Britt, but we’re not long-distance kinda people. She knows that, I know that. If we were truly meant to be and all that, we’d end up together eventually.”

It’s said with the same quiet determination that Puck carried with him the day she left Lima, and she wonders what happened to these tough-as-nails people, that they burn with such conviction. Their eyes shine the same way; Rachel wonders at which point along the way she lost her own luster. “You will,” says Rachel earnestly, leaning forward; she isn't sure if Santana is comfortable enough to let her touch her, but she wants to convey her support. “She makes you happy. I know things have been hard for you, with your abuela and all, but it’ll get better, I promise – ”

“Wait a minute, Berry,” interrupts Santana. “How’d you know about my abuela?”

“I…” _Shit shit shit_.

“I didn't tell anyone, only Britt…” She trails off, narrowing her eyes at Rachel. “Have you been spying on me?”

“Certainly not!”

“You have! Otherwise how would you have known?”

Rachel is caught like a deer in headlights. She knows she’s an unappealing sight right now, but she can't think. “Santana, I… it’s a long story.”

“Fine, whatever. It’s totally cool if you don't feel like telling me anything.” She storms off, deaf to Rachel’s calls.

Rachel grits her teeth. She throws some money on the table and rushes after her. “Santana, wait,” she says, catching her friend’s arm. “I'm sorry.”

“What are you sorry for? Not telling me you found out, or for not telling me how?”

“Both. I'm sorry it seemed like I didn't want to tell you, because I do. I meant it when I said you're one of my best friends, Santana, but it really is a long story, and… I’m not ready to share everything yet.” She drops her gaze. “I’m sorry. I do trust you, and I will tell you everything someday, when I'm ready. I promise.”

Santana visibly softens. “It’s okay, midget. You don't have to tell me if it’s difficult.” Looking into Santana’s eyes, Rachel remembers that this is the scared girl who struggled with her sexuality for most of high school, and knows that she truly understands.

Rachel smiles at her. “I'm going to hug you now, okay?”

“Ugh. Whatever for? Please don't tell me it’s ‘cause we had a ‘moment’ or whatever.” But Santana lets Rachel throw her arms around her, even hugging back briefly. “Alright. Alright. Getting uncomfortable here, Berry.”

* * *

She knows Brittany dates Sam while she’s repeating her senior year, away from Santana. But Sam, and then _Finn_? This twist in events has her shaking her head. If not herself and Quinn, caught up with Puck, Finn, and Sam; now it’s Santana.

She doesn’t really care – she and Finn parted on pretty good terms. Brittany and Finn make a good couple; they are on the same intellectual level and they just seem to get each other. But as Santana’s roommate and current best female friend, Rachel is firmly on the opposing camp. She spends Will’s wedding holding onto Santana’s arm and shooting sad looks at Finn from across the floor.

“I’m sorry,” she says, squeezing Santana’s hand.

“I’m not.” Her friend hasn’t taken her eyes off the stage, and their Glee club friends who have been taking it in turns to perform. “She’s happy, and that’s all that matters. He makes her happy. They’re both so good for each other. I can’t believe it hasn’t happened earlier.”

Santana’s eyes are glassy – whether from the alcohol or from tears, Rachel can’t tell – and she decides not to pursue the topic further. She knows Santana hasn't quite gotten over her high school love, and she knows how that feels. “C’mon, you promised me you’d show me your Lima Heights moves the next time we found a dance floor,” she says just as Blaine takes the stage with some kids she vaguely remembers from their mentorship stint over Thanksgiving.

Santana rolls her eyes at her. “Nice try, Berry. I’m not that drunk.”

“Since when does Santana Lopez need to be drunk to boogie?”

Her friend laughs, loud and uproariously. “Oh my god, Berry. I’ll dance, on the condition that you never use that word again.”

“Show me your best caterpillar and we have a deal.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

* * *

That night, she sleeps with Santana.

 _She_ sleeps with Santana.  

She _sleeps_ with _Santana._

Granted, Santana is attractive and a ridiculously good lover, but Rachel didn't intend for things to turn out that way.

Santana rolls over to look at her, grinning smugly. “Wow. No wonder they all wanted a piece of your ass. Your mouth really _is_ good for something other showtunes,” she says, and waggles her tongue.

Rachel scowls at her.

“Oh, relax, Rachel. I was just kidding.” She rolls back to ransack the bedside drawer, producing a room service menu. “I’m starving. What about you?”

She’s spared from answering by the chiming of her and Santana’s phones; they go to check. “Breakfast at IHOP in an hour,” reads Rachel.

“Screw them, I’ve got another kind of breakfast in mind.” Santana waggles her eyebrows as she slides a hand up Rachel’s belly.

She rolls her eyes. “Must you be so filthy?”

“No, but it’s fun. Besides, I don't remember you complaining last night.”

Rachel climbs out of bed, peeling Santana’s hands off her body. “Get dressed.”

“I don't _feel_ like getting dressed. Not yet, if you catch my drift.”

“We need to eat. Our flight back to New York’s in the afternoon, we won’t have time if we don’t have something now, so we might as well join our friends.”

“You can eat me out, then.”

“Don’t be disgusting.” Rachel tosses Santana’s dress at her head, and goes back to gathering her clothes.

“I’m keeping it real.” Santana grunts again when her panties sail across the room to land on her head. “You have no sense of humour. Cassie July and Bobby Gaypants must have sucked it all out of you.”

“Santana…”

“What, Rachel?”

“We need to talk about this.” She gestures between them.

“... I know. Not right now. Okay?”

“... okay.” Rachel disappears into the bathroom.

The hot water cascades over Rachel’s body; she sighs. It’s a fine mess she's found herself in. She’s complicated her friendship with Santana against her better judgment, and she isn't sure how she’ll proceed from here – or even if there will be proceeding.

Rachel shrieks when Santana slides open the shower door. “I’m not done yet!”

“Yeah, that’s the whole point,” she says with a smirk, shutting the door behind her. “I’ll help you finish.”

“You have a one track mind,” replies Rachel even as she scoots over to make room for Santana, body already thrumming with desire.

* * *

It’s a motley crew of Glee clubbers, old and new; she supposes Puck must have mass-texted every number he has – and being the main party organizer, he has a lot. He springs up from his place in the middle of the breakfast chaos when he spots her.

“My Jewbabe,” says Puck. They didn’t have a chance to talk at all last night; what with her keeping Santana company. “Looking hot as always.”

“It’s good to see you, Noah.” Rachel’s greeting is pitched a little lower than usual; his eyes darken briefly – as does Santana’s. Her roommate looks away to resume her animated conversation with Mercedes a moment later. “You look great.”

“The Puckster always looks great,” he retorts. Rachel laughs and follows him to the table. He playfully shoves aside a few people to make room for her; Rachel gladly squeezes between Sam and Marley and takes the menu that is passed to her.

“You and Santana are breakfast buddies?” asks Puck, waggling his eyebrows at her.

“It’s really none of your business, Noah,” says Rachel. She keeps her eyes trained on her menu.

“Two hot babes together is always my business, sweetheart.”

The blonde girl sitting on his right scowls. “Dick back in, Puckerman, before I clip off it for you.”

“Aw babe.”

It’s clear that the blonde is Kitty, that underclassman that she heard that Puck’s currently hooking up with. She’s a poor imitation of Quinn but Rachel supposes he could do worse.

Like her.

Rachel steals a glance at Santana ( who is now studiously avoiding looking at her _and_ Brittany).

* * *

“We should talk about last night.”

Santana stares at her. “What’s there to talk about? It was just some fun between two drunk friends. You of all people should be familiar with the concept of casual sex, Rachel.”

“Yes, but… you’re my best friend, Santana.” Rachel clasps her hands together in her lap. “I don’t want to betray that friendship.”

“You didn’t. We knew exactly what we were doing. I was drunk because seeing Brittany with someone else still hurts even though we haven’t been together for ages, and you were just trying to make me feel better with loads of orgasms. Plus, we’re sober now, so that’s not happening again, yeah?”

Rachel forces a smile. “Yeah.”

Rachel hasn’t had many opportunities to get to know Santana. It’s only been until after high school in her real life, and then the most recent wish, that she has had the chance to maintain a friendship. Rachel knows how good a friend Santana can be, but…

A romantic relationship with her? The possibility blows her mind. She’s never been able to see Santana in that way, mostly because she thought she was straight, and because of Santana and Brittany were one of those couples that were meant to be.

But what if she wants to be selfish? What if she takes Santana for herself, because this isn’t real and she’ll go back to her real life afterwards? No. She can't do that. Not to Brittany, especially not to Santana. She isn't able to give herself fully in a relationship like Santana deserves, like Brittany or practically anyone else can.

Not after seeing Quinn again.

“Seriously, stop overthinking, Berry. I can see your brain working from here,” Santana says, rolling her eyes. “I don’t like you that way, and I’m pretty sure you don’t like me either. Plus, you've got your hands full with your side pieces and Snix doesn't share.”

Rachel blushes.

* * *

“Schwimmer.”

“Yeah, Cassie?”

Cassie looks up from her phone. “You don't have to go.”

She stills. The conversation sounds familiar. “What?”

“You could stay here, instead of having to travel all the way to your miserable artist hole.”

Rachel doesn't laugh this time. She sets down her bag and goes back to the bed. “Cassie, are you asking me to move in?”

She scowls. “Fuck, no. I meant that you could just hang around a little longer instead of skulking around like a teenager after curfew. God, you're – what? – twenty-one? Twenty-two?”

“Twenty,” says Rachel quietly, trying not to let her relief show.

“Whatever. Too damn young for an old hag like me.”

“Cassie… you know what we have… it isn't a relationship. It can't be. I'm still a student.”

Cassie rolls her eyes. “I may be twice your age but I'm not senile yet. God, I know. I just have an itch to scratch with someone I know isn't going to give me crabs, you have a brain injury that keeps bringing you back here… what we have works, Ohio, and I'm grand with keeping it that way.”

“Good. Just so we’re on the same page.” Rachel kisses her softly, then kicks off her shoes. “Since you're not that eager on getting rid of me, I’ll take full advantage of your hospitality,” she says, getting back under the covers and resting her head in Cassie’s lap.

“Lazy brat,” mutters Cassie, absently stroking her fingers through Rachel’s hair.

* * *

Brody shows up fashionably late, his collar popped and his hair artfully tousled. “Hi, Rachel,” he says, kissing her cheek. “I've missed you.”

“Hello, Brody.” She hopes her lack of response to the second part is conspicuous, so that she can ease into her agenda. “Do you want anything to drink?”

“Yeah, I'm dying for a frappe. I just came from Cassie’s Intro to Dance class.” He pulls a face, and laughs. “Be right back.” In the span of time within which he buys his coffee and a bagel, Rachel loses her nerve and finds it again at least seven times.

When Brody sits back down, she says without preamble: “Brody, we’ve been seeing each other for nearly two years now.”

“Yeah, about there.” He looks panicked. “Have I missed an important date or something?”

“What? No, no. I was simply making a statement.”

“Wait, are you breaking up with me?”

Rachel frowns. “Can you just let me finish?”

“Sorry.”

“As I was saying, we’ve been seeing each other for close to two years now.” She clasps her hands together in front of her. “We agreed to stay casual and see what develops, but… my feelings for you haven't changed. I need to know what you feel for me so I can do us both a favour, so to speak.”

He gapes at her. “Rachel, are you being serious right now? I'm pretty sure what _I_ feel for _you_ hasn't changed since the first time I saw you. You're attractive and amazing and talented. I would love nothing more than to be in a relationship with you, and the only reason I agreed to this casual relationship thing of yours is ‘cause I understand what it’s like, being in NY for the first time. It’s nothing like the cow towns we grew up in, and you wanna do it all. I get that you want to explore your options.”

“I have explored my options.”

“But you don't feel anything for me.”

“I'm sorry.” She meets his eyes for the first time since she initiated the conversation. “It’s not you…”

“It’s me,” he finishes. “I've heard it plenty of times, Rach, don't bother. God. Who’d’ve thought that I got played by a girl fresh out of Hicksville?” He looks away, jaw clenching. “I guess that's what I get for being a nice guy and waiting for you.”

“You're being unfair.”

“Yeah? Really? You're the one who fucked me whenever you got an itch, and now you've fucked me over. You didn't want anything serious. I can live with that, ‘cause – seriously Rachel? What guy doesn't want free sex? And yeah, now some hotter piece of candy comes along and you're dumping me on my ass because I've already put out like a cheap whore.”

“You are,” says Rachel quietly.

“Excuse me?”

“You left your pager at my place the other day. You had clients in it, and – Santana thought you were selling drugs.” Brody isn't meeting her eyes anymore. “You're sleeping with people for money.”

“So? What? Fucking _grow up_ , Rachel. Not all of us go to school on daddy’s fucking money. I do what I need to get by.” He has both hands flat on the table, his face twisted into a snarl. Rachel wants to be gentle with him, because – god, he didn’t even do anything _wrong_ – but the way Brody turns on her makes something _furious_ rise from its slumber; something dark she’s been keeping for the past two lifetimes.

“I never said there was anything wrong with _prostitution_ ,” she snaps. “I only have with an issue with your sleeping with other people and not telling me, especially when I’m sleeping with _you_. Are you clean?”

“Of course.” Brody stares incredulously. “Are you actually – ? Fuck this shit. Rachel… what happened to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You didn’t use to be this angry and bitter.” He actually looks sorry for her, and damn it all – she doesn’t need his pity, she doesn’t need to let anyone down again. Guilt quickly dampens the anger that’s sprung to life, leaving smouldering embers. Rachel leans back in her chair, trying to show him she’s relaxed.

“It’s over, Brody.”

And his expression is hardening again; she’s thankful he never was particularly perceptive. “Fine. Thanks for nothing,” Brody practically growls as he leaves.

* * *

She crawls back into the loft not long afterwards. The lights are off, and she’s glad her housemates have decided to call it a night.

“And what time do you call this, Berry?” A light gets flicked on to reveal Santana, sitting on the couch.

Rachel jumps. “Santana?”

“Who else? Someone’s gots to stay up to make sure you don’t fall and hurt yourself.” She softens visibly. “Oh shit. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Fuck off. I can see it written all over your face. Did you get dumped? Did you dump someone? Dump everyone?”

Rachel shakes her head. “Most people would be more upset if they were dumped than doing the dumping,” she says, walking briskly into her room to put away her purse. Santana – unconcerned by trivial things such as personal space – follows her.

“I know you, Rachel. You feel equally guilty either way. C’mon, talk to Aunty Tana.”

“I broke up with Brody. We weren't in a relationship, therefore there’s nothing to talk about,” responds Rachel brusquely. She rummages through her wardrobe for a tank top and shorts to change into, scowling when she finds Santana still waiting. “Do you mind? I’d like to get changed.”

“You didn’t use to care if I was here or not,” observes Santana.

“Yes, before we slept together.”

“So? What’s changed?”

Rachel’s teeth press into the flesh of her lower lip, gently at first, and then harder. “Everything. I… look, Santana; it’s been a long day, and I’m exhausted. Can we… talk another day?”

Santana’s eyes flash. “Whatever, Midget.”

* * *

Santana starts dating a girl from her cafe – Bailey or something. Rachel tells herself she’s fine with that, because Bailey is cute and nice and comes with no fucking emotional baggage whatsoever. And _she_ comes with an entire Orient Express baggage car’s worth, vintage carpetbags and all.

She’s still got Cassie anyway. She doesn’t deserve anything real.

* * *

Rachel comes home, tired and disheveled. She’s been running on caffeine and trail mix since this morning, but all she wants now is a hot shower and her bed.

Santana is sprawled on the couch, popcorn tucked under one arm, watching television. “Hey.”

“Hello, Santana.” She smiles at her roommate. “Where’s Kurt?”

“Went to bed ages ago mumbling about beauty sleep,” mumbles Santana, not taking her eyes off the screen. “It’s a lost cause, actually.”

“Be nice,” replies Rachel, though her mouth twitches – and judging from the snide grin Santana wears, it didn't go unnoticed. “How was work?” calls Rachel from the kitchen as she rummages in the fridge.

“It was good. Your class?”

“Good.” She uncaps the yoghurt smoothie and gulps down half. “I need a shower. I reek of blood, sweat, and tears. Don't wait up.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Rachel finishes her smoothie and disappears into the bathroom. The hot water is heaven on her aching muscles, and she sighs happily. Not all of her muscle aches are from dancing her heart out; she’d cornered Cassie sometime in between classes because she was pissed at her classmates and Cassie was frustrated with the senior production’s cast’s inability to take direction.

The sex had been quick, rough, and dirty; in other words, spectacular. Rachel hisses as the water cascades over the angry scratches on her back.

She goes through a light version of her regular skincare routine because it’s late and she knows she’ll be completely wiped out once she’s clean and comfortable. Rachel pulls on a baggy T-shirt and shorts, frowning; she can still hear the TV, and smell… is that _tofu_?

Outside, Santana is busy with the stove. She has a wooden spatula in her hand, occasionally giving the contents of her pan and stir. The TV is off, but she has her phone plugged into the charging dock in the kitchen, singing along to the music.

“Santana? What are you doing?”

“Oh, Rachel.” She reaches out to turn off the music. “Sit down, gimme a minute.”

Rachel complies, still staring. Her roommate puts a plate full of steaming something in front of her. “Here. I bet you ate nothing but trail mix the whole day, right?”

“I – had a smoothie too,” she says automatically, then cringes when Santana smirks.

“Yeah, so not helping your case. Eat. It’s tofu stir fry, made with love and whatever leftover veggies Kurt and I saved from dinner.”

“... Thank you.”

“Thank me later. Eat before it gets cold, or Snix will go Lima Heights on your skinny ass.” Santana smiles at her, and there’s a trace of the old warmth that was there, before it’s gone. “I’m off to bed. Night.”

“Good night, Santana. Thank you.” Rachel pokes at her food, appetite gone. She can’t blame Santana for being distant, not after she’s been shutting her friend out since the wedding. But Rachel’s not willing to entertain the possibility that she might have feelings for Santana, and might never be.

* * *

Finn dies in this life, just like he did in her real life.

Funnily enough, the shock of her breaking up with him in the past life pushed him to succeed in the army, and they managed to rekindle a friendship through Kurt, after the awkward conversation at her opening night. She remembers seeing him at Quinn’s funeral, handsome in his dress uniform, his wife beside him.

They’d spoken briefly then; she’d been introduced to his wife, Andrea, and they had caught up on each other’s lives. The Hudsons had extended an open invitation for her should she ever visit Washington (another big surprise, considering how much of a small town boy Finn was).

Here, he is forever young. She considers herself privileged to have, at least, to have been given two chances to see the man Finn could have become, both with and without her.

* * *

She needs fresh air.

It was hard enough having to relive his funeral. But to see Brittany heartbroken beside the casket… it brings up too many memories, and she barely manages to excuse herself before bursting into loud, angry sobs outside.

Warm arms encircle her. “Noah,” she mumbles.

“We’re okay,” he says. He’s never been an elegant crier, and the words are barely audible, but Rachel’s fluent in the language of loss. “We’ll get through this.”

“It’s not fair.”

“I know, babe. He’d gone to college because he _fucking_ finally knew what he wanted to do, and he planned on marrying her after graduation ‘cause he’d be able to support a family then.” Puck’s voice cracks a little. “He called me the day before it happened, all excited, because she said yes.”

Rachel’s blood runs cold. “What?”

Puck drags his entire sleeve across his face. “He proposed, that big fucking idiot.”

* * *

She’s composed enough to go back inside, Puck holding her hand. Brittany’s sitting with Carole, staring dazedly at the casket; Santana has her arm around her oldest friend’s shoulders.

Santana shouldn’t need to be working out stuff with her now; not when Brittany needs her more than she does. Rachel goes to a distraught Kurt, wrapping her arms around his neck and letting him cry into her shoulder.

* * *

(“Do you think she’s at peace now?”

Rachel looked up. Santana was staring straight ahead, jaw clenched.

“She’s not in pain anymore, that’s for sure.”

“But we are.” Santana dropped her gaze, lip trembling. “And yet, I’m sure she was hurting more than we are now, and she never said a word. Typical Q.”

“I choose not to think about that.” Rachel reached for Santana’s hand, smiling faintly when Santana tangled their fingers together and squeezed back. “I choose to believe she’s not suffering anymore, and that’s all that matters.”)

* * *

On the first day of the memorial week, Rachel sings _Angel._ She doesn’t finish the song note-perfect, but she finishes it anyway, in memory of the first Finn she lost, the second Finn she loved, the third Finn she left, and the fourth Finn she briefly knew.

* * *

The performances go on until the last day, when the door to the choir room opens. Brittany enters, followed closely by Santana. They sit in the front row of seats.

Brittany’s chosen to sing _So Far Away_ by Carole King which she performs very quietly, her voice raw with emotion. There isn’t a dry eye in the room when she’s done and back in her seat.

Then Santana gets up to sing. Her voice cracks a few times, but her eyes don’t leave Brittany’s.

Rachel looks out the window.

* * *

“How is she?”

Santana shrugs one shoulder. “Not good.” The fact that she hasn't bothered with a sarcastic answer speaks volumes. “And you?”

“San, I dated Finn for a few months, as did you. I hadn't spoken to him since we graduated. I'm devastated, of course, but Brittany…”

“She was in love with him,” finishes Santana flatly, her expression dull.

“Noah told me he proposed.”

“Yeah. Big dumb idiot. Always too nice and doing the right thing.” Santana scrubs at her face furiously. “I've never seen Britt like this. She’s totally heartbroken.”

“I miss him.” Rachel scoots closer to rest her head on Santana’s shoulder.

Santana’s smile looks tired. “Me too.”

She screws up her eyes. “God, there was this time he texted me to meet him in the carpark in five, that it was an emergency. It turned out that the emergency was Breadstix’s all-you-can-eat buffet.”

Santana chuckles. “He thought that dressing up for a date meant a fresh polo shirt and jeans that weren't grease-stained.”

“He thought a half-empty box of chocolates was an adequate Valentine’s Day present because he needed to sample the contents to make sure it was good.”

“He bought mince pies for Christmas and was disappointed it wasn’t real meat.”

They’re laughing now, through the tears streaming down their faces.

“I’m sorry I broke us, Santana.” She inches closer.

“And that was completely out of the blue.”

“Sorry. It just… seemed appropriate, after we had a moment. I’m sorry I’ve been acting strange – well, stranger than normal.”

Santana doesn’t say anything, but she leans into Rachel. She interprets it as an acceptance of sorts.

* * *

Rachel and Kurt have to go back to New York once the week’s over, but Santana’s opted to stay with Brittany.

“Take care of her,” says Kurt, hugging Santana.

“Of course, Hummel.”

Rachel doesn't wait for Santana’s permission; she throws herself at her friend. She feels Santana hugging her back tightly. “Be okay,” says Rachel as they part.

“You too.”

* * *

(Rachel’s almost forgotten about Quinn, until a Metro pass arrives in the mail, pristine and white, and she immediately frames it to hang on her wall so she won’t forget again.)

* * *

Something has definitely shifted between her and Santana when she returns from Lima, but Rachel can’t quite put her finger on it. The tension has disappeared, but the atmosphere doesn’t have the same comfortable feel to it as before.

Rachel doesn’t really have time to puzzle over it (even if she had the inclination to). She’s finished her exams, and even though she’s only a sophomore, she’s started her audition circuit. Kurt was saying something about a callback for the revival of _Newsies_ when she called him earlier; he’s excited even just to be a dancer or an ensemble member.

Things are looking up. She starts humming _No Good Deed_ absently as she pulls the loft door open.

She sees a dark head in the living room. “Santana?”

“Rachel.” Santana’s voice is momentarily thick, then she’s scrambling off the couch. “You're home early.”

“Yeah, I was done earlier than expected.” She does her best to ignore Santana’s slightly rumpled appearance, and the puffy red eyes. “Santana, is everything alright?”

“Yeah.”

Rachel stares.

Santana throws up her hands. “I broke up with Bailey, okay. Happy now?”

“I’m sorry,” says Rachel, ignoring the challenging, belligerent tone of the last part.

“Yeah? That makes one of us.”

“I…” Rachel swallows hard, and continues: “I'm here, and so is Kurt, if you want to talk.” She knows she shouldn't be glossing over the newfound tension in their friendship, but she’s too emotionally drained.

“Okay.” The word is flat, emotionless. Rachel doesn't miss how Santana goes from angry to dispassionate in a heartbeat. She walks towards her room, guilt prickling at her insides.

And she remembers that she’s Rachel Berry, and that she’s a star – even if most of her luster is gone, and she’s close to burning out.

“No, it’s not okay,” she says suddenly, flopping down on the couch beside Santana; the other girl starts. “We need to talk.”

“I didn't break up with you.”

“I know, but – I'm sorry. This is all my fault. I know I've been distant, and that's not fair.”

“Not fair?” Santana laughs sourly. “You know what’s not fair? You broke up with Brody that night, and you didn't want to tell me. I had to press you – much like just now. I thought we were friends.”

Her heart sinks. “I… I'm sorry.”

“You being distant is the biggest fucking understatement of the year. I gave you space, especially after…” She trails off. “You barely even talked to me before that. We agreed that sleeping together wouldn't change a thing, except it totally fucking did and I have no idea why.” Santana’s expression hardens. “Then Bailey dumps me and now you're my best friend again? You're so fucking hot and cold, Berry.”

Rachel bites on her lower lip. Santana’s right; she _has_ been distant. She has a very good reason for that, of course; she just wants to protect Santana from her, but she can't come out and say that. “I'm sorry.”

“Is that all you can say? Fuck you, Rachel.” Santana doesn't seem angry now, just tired. “Look. We were in high school together, and we share an apartment now. Decide how much more or less you want us to be, and stop changing your fucking mind without letting me know.” Santana stands. “I’ll be here, if you want to talk,” she calls acidly over her shoulder as she disappears into her room.

(“You wouldn't understand,” whispers Rachel, standing alone in the living room.”)

* * *

The tension between them that she had thought gone escalates into something viscous and choking. Kurt hovers in the kitchen, torn between his friends, as they sit silently at the table.

“I'm done,” snaps Santana abruptly. Her chair screeches on the floor, and she snatches up her bag. “I’ll be late tonight.”

“Santana, wait – ”

His words are cut off by the slamming of the door. Rachel doesn't look up from the mug in her hands until she feels eyes on her. “What happened?” sighs Kurt.

“I hurt her.”

He sighs again. “Rachel, I love you, but that's been going on for a while.”

“I know,” she mutters. She hates this. Third time around, and she’s screwing everything up, turning everything she touches to poison. “Kurt, you know you can be completely honest with me, right?”

“I've always been honest with you, if you recall; my opinion of your high school wardrobe has never been quiet or peaceful.”

The weak joke elicits a smile from her, which Kurt returns with a squeeze of her shoulder. She draws courage from the touch. “Does Santana have feelings for me?”

He stiffens. “Rachel…”

“I need to know. It’s Santana, and we’ve got a lot of history, and I… I need to know that it’s not all in my head, that this isn't the me who’s in love with the idea of love and chasing after anybody who could love me, even fighting over them.”

Kurt shoots her a funny look. “You fought over someone? Who?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Rachel backpedals. She feels her cheeks heat. “I meant that I haven't always been the best at noticing others’ feelings. I'm quite self-centered in that regard.”

Kurt snorts. “Oh, you are? I couldn't tell. Rachel…”

She glances at him.

“I’ve known you for close to seven years now. If you need to ask about Santana, I think you already know the answer.” He kisses her cheek. “I really do need to go. I'm sorry.”

“Thanks, Kurt. See you later.”

* * *

So, now what? She doesn’t have that many options.

The doorbell rings, startling her out of her thoughts. “Kurt?” calls Rachel as she goes to answer it. “Did you forget your keys?” She yanks the door open to see Puck.

“Hi, Rach.”

“Noah?” She lets him step forward and hug her before she reacts. “What’re you doing here?”

“I got your address from Britt, and decided to take a little vacation.” Puck hauls his duffel bag over his shoulder and follows her in. “I hope you don’t mind me crashing here for a coupla days.”

“You’ll have to check with Santana and Kurt.” Rachel knows she’s being cold, but she’s still a little shocked by his sudden presence – especially now, when she’s got plenty of her own issues to sift through. “I hope you like the couch.”

He laughs. “It’s better than the floor, anytime.” Dutifully, he sits down where she pointed, shucking his jacket on the neighbouring chair (and getting up to put it away properly, under Rachel’s glare). “Come over here, you’re too far away,” says Puck, patting the seat beside him.

Rachel rolls her eyes. “Using the same lines you’ve had since high school? What does Kitty even see in you, anyway?”

“Not much, which is why she’s called it quits and gone after Artie.”

“Oh.” She goes to sit beside him. “I’m sorry.”

“Nah, it’s good. It wasn’t gonna work out between us in the long run, and blonde bitchy cheerleaders are hot.” He leans back into the cushions. “I’m not here because of Kitty. I’m here because I needed some breathing space away from home, and...” Puck’s expression loses some of its cockiness. “I missed you.”

“Noah.”

“Not in that way, babe. Give me some credit.”

“I’m sorry. It’s a habit when it comes to you,” says Rachel abashedly, and he chuckles.

“Eh, it’s true. Puckasaurus has a reputation.”

She chooses to ignore him. “How long will you be staying, Noah?”

“I have a job next Tuesday, so I’m taking the Greyhound Monday night. I expect you guys to keep me fed, entertained, and boozed in the meantime. Like, there’s a reason why you all are so hung up on the Big Apple that you don’t even come home anymore, right?”

Rachel laughs. “Then what are we waiting for?” she exclaims, grabbing his hand and pulling him up.

* * *

What started out as lunch and a tour quickly becomes an epic journey through New York. When she’s with Puck, the stress seems to melt away. Rachel forgets about Santana, about school – even Quinn – when he makes tasteless jokes that they both know he doesn’t mean, but does it to get a rise out of Rachel.

It’s easy for her to lose herself in the moment when they’re goofing around in FAO Schwarz ( _not_ on the floor piano, because it’s overdone to the point of being tacky. Puck shrugs and goes to check out the toy trucks on the same floor).

She can't exactly keep blaming Puck for how she’s behaving; not after they've joined a band busking in Central Park because he was aghast that she hadn't completed more than half the items on her New York Bucket List. The applause they get when they’ve finished performing, plus the genuine smile Puck sends her way, ignites something deep inside her that she had thought had died, long ago.

(Rachel’s ashamed that she’s forgotten what it’s like to dream.)

* * *

“Are you okay, babe?”

She glances over at him. “Define okay.”

Puck shrugs. “Not okay, then, if you’re asking me stuff like that.”

“Honestly? I haven’t been okay for awhile now.” Rachel can feel him staring. “I’ll be fine. Just… I’ve got a lot on my plate right now, and I need time.”

“Okay.” He scoots over; just as she’s bracing herself for his hand on her shoulder, Puck takes a playful bite out of the rest of her ice cream, and she shrieks in outrage.

* * *

They collapse on the couch (“Careful, babe, don’t squash my bed”) Monday evening, exhausted and flushed. Santana’s taking a late shift, and Kurt’s staying over at Adam’s, so Rachel doesn’t bother to keep their noise down.

“Told you we should’ve stayed for another drink,” slurs Puck. “We got the whole place to ourselves now.”

Rachel pulls herself up a little so she can swat at him; she misses. “You're heading back later tonight, Noah. We came back early so you can organise yourself before you leave. I suggest you take a shower before you leave.”

“I'd just get dirty again. Those buses are nasty.”

“It’s completely up to you if you want to neglect your personal hygiene, but don’t expect me to come anywhere near you,” huffs Rachel. “Speaking of which, I’m going to shower. I’m disgusting.” She stands, a little unsteady on her feet, and attempts to climb over Puck’s sprawled legs to get to the bathroom. Rachel makes it a few steps before wobbling and going down. She lands in Puck’s arms after he’d moved forward to catch her.

They are nose-to-nose, and all coherent thought has fled her mind. He’s familiar, and he’s uncomplicated, and he’s close enough for her to remember that her feelings for him have never really gone away…

Rachel kisses him first. Puck’s arms wrap securely around her waist, pulling her closer until she can straddle his lap, hands on his shoulders. She doesn’t break the kiss the entire time, until his fingers brush over a sensitive spot on her side and she gasps; he smirks against her mouth, and kisses her again.

Her nails scrape over the base of his neck, something she knows he likes. Puck grunts and moves to suck on her neck. His teeth press briefly to the pulse point; Rachel inhales sharply. Like a well-practiced musician with a beloved instrument, Puck’s hands and mouth move in tandem over her sensitive areas, eliciting sensation after sensation. “Noah,” she moans when his tongue darts over the shell of her ear and he squeezes her right breast.

“What the fuck?”

Rachel pushes him off her. Santana, looking unamused, has her hands on her hips. “Puckerman? Is that you, or did Berry pick up some new boy toy?” Rachel winces at the acerbic tone.

“Hey, Lopez.” He doesn’t look at Rachel, and she can’t look at him. Her hands are smoothing over her clothing compulsively. “You're back early.”

“I traded a favour with a colleague to get off a little earlier.” Rachel notices – too late – that there are a few bags of Chinese takeout on the floor beside her. “I guess you guys are busy, I can leave this here and come back later.”

“No, wait,” says Rachel, just as Puck says: “Thanks, Santana.” They stop short, turning to stare at each other.

“Noah.”

There’s a muscle going in his jaw; it’s a habit of his, when he’s frustrated, angry, or both. She pleads with him silently for his understanding, then breaks eye contact to chase after Santana.

“Santana, wait.” Rachel can see her roommate curse and jab at the lift buttons.

“What are you doing here, Rachel? I’m sorry I interrupted, you can go back and continue whatever you had going on.”

She thinks it will be a bad idea to touch Santana when she’s mad, so Rachel blocks the lift with her body. “Can we talk? Please?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Santana’s eyes are dark with emotion, her mouth set in a tight line. She attempts to squeeze past Rachel into the lift; Rachel stubbornly plants herself in the way. Santana curses again when the lift doors shut and it descends.

“What do you want from me?” explodes Santana.

“I'm sorry.”

“For what?”

“Hurting you,” she whispers.

Something flickers in Santana’s eyes. “And why would I be hurt by you and Puckerman getting it on? We’re not dating.”

“But that doesn't mean you don't want to, Santana.”

“Fuck off.” She starts for the stairs; Rachel darts in front of her again.

“Please, just… hear me out. Please.”

Santana crosses her arms over her chest. “One minute. Against my better judgement.”

“I didn't know exactly how much I've been hurting you before,” continues Rachel. “I talked to Kurt. He didn't say anything,” she says quickly, before Santana can interject, “but he helped me realise why things between us have been so weird recently.”

Rachel chews on her lower lip. “I… I care about you, Santana; more than friends should. I think I might even love you. But you deserve better than someone like me. I'm a mess, who hasn't had a real relationship since Noah, and even then I've gone and messed that up too…”

“Messed that up? You two looked pretty fine to me, glued together on the couch, with his hands all over you.”

“We got caught up in the moment. I’m not in love with him anymore. He was familiar, and we’d been drinking.”

Santana scowls. “You don’t have to justify shit to me. I don’t care. Okay?” The lift dings again; she pushes past Rachel, and is gone.

Rachel swears. She turns on her heel and heads back for the apartment. Inside, Puck is throwing things into his rucksack.

“Noah.”

His head jerks in her direction; his lip curls. “What do you want? Lopez dumped you, you wanna get back to fooling around with me?”

“There’s nothing between Santana and myself.”

“Just how stupid do you think I am, Rachel?” He marches over to her. Puck’s fists are clenched at his sides. “She was upset ‘cause we were making out. You left me to go after her. Doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.”

“It’s complicated.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet it is.” He turns away angrily. “Fuck this shit. I’m not getting myself in the middle of whatever bullshit’s between you two. I got standards; ironically, you taught me that.” Puck slings his bag over one shoulder, pushing past Rachel. “I’ll see you around.”

She doesn’t go after him. Rachel’s knees give way; she slides bonelessly to the floor. The broken pieces of her life slide through her fingers, and she has no idea where to start to fix things; not when she has no clue where it all went wrong in the first place.

Rachel has to get away from all this.

* * *

(She’d been exasperated at Quinn’s tendency to run from her problems, but she’s increasingly guilty of the same thing.               

* * *

Kurt calls her bright and early, clearly anticipating she’d be awake. Rachel fumbles for her phone as Cassie hurls mumbled curse after mumbled curse at the noise. “H’lo?”

“Rachel? Did I wake you?” says Kurt incredulously. “Where are you? Are you okay?”

“Yes.” She’s in no mood to be verbose, not after the night she’s had. “I’m at Cassie’s. I’m fine. What is it?”

“What did you do to Santana?”

She bristles. “What do you mean, what’d _I_ do? I didn't do anything to her.”

“She wouldn't be hiding in her room and insisting she’s not crying as she’s crying for no reason at all, Rachel. Did something happen last night?”

Rachel sighs; there went her hopes of ending the call quickly and going back to bed. She gets up – Cassie grunts when cold air comes in – and pads over to the window. “... She came home unexpectedly early last night and walked in on Noah and I kissing.”

“... what.”

“You’re making that face, aren’t you?”

“Rachel… what do you want me to say?”

She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Please. My life is a mess right now and it’s all my fault. I know there’s a lot you want to say to me that I deserve, but right now’s not the time, Kurt.”

“I know,” he says gently, and she feels guilty for snapping at him.

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine. When will you be home?”

When Rachel doesn't answer immediately, he mutters, “Rachel, running away won’t fix anything.”

“I’m not running away,” she says defensively, and he snorts. “Okay, I’m running away a bit, but I need to take a step back. I screwed up, and I need to re-evaluate things before I can fix this.”

“... Alright.” Kurt’s tone softens. “As long as I know you’re safe. I know Santana’s worried about you too, even if she’s mad at you right now.”

“I don’t deserve you guys.”

“Maybe not right now,” he says, and she rolls her eyes with a scoff. “I’m joking, Rachel. We all make mistakes, and I know you’ll get your act together. Love you. Take care of yourself, okay?”

“I love you too, Kurt. Take care of Santana for me, please?”

“Of course. Oh, that reminds me… The anniversary of – you know – is in two months.”

Her heart sinks to the pit of her stomach. “... So fast?”

“Yeah. I’m headed back home to be with Dad and Carole. Have you got any plans?”

“Not for the time being, no. I wasn’t supposed to visit my dads until Thanksgiving.”

“Okay. I’ve got to go, Rachel. I’ll talk to you soon?”

“Sure. Bye, Kurt. I love you.” She ends the call, but she doesn’t move from the window. Rachel continues to stare absently outside until warm arms slip around her waist.

“So when were you planning on telling me you’ll be a semi-permanent fixture in my bed, Ohio?” comes Cassie’s sleepy voice in her ear.

Rachel turns in Cassie’s embrace. “I’m sorry, Cass. I have a lot going on – I messed up with Santana, and I just needed to go somewhere I could catch my breath.” She lets her forehead fall forward to rest against Cassie’s collarbone. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Lucky for you, I don’t.” An insistent pressure on Rachel’s hip makes her look up. “Hey, Schwimmer. Take it from me: running away from shit isn’t the best idea. You tend to run into bigger problems that aren’t easy to shake, like alcohol and viral career-ruining YouTube videos.”

She lets out a surprised laugh. “It’s too early for you to be this self-aware and sensible.”

“No, it’s too late for me. That’s why I’m not gonna be anything more to you than that warm body in bed and that notch on your bedpost of sexual experiences. I’m telling you that you need to fix whatever mess you made with that girl.”

“Are you breaking up with me?”

“Relax, Berry. No one’s breaking up with anyone.” She backs away, and goes to snag a bathrobe from her closet, shrugging it on as she heads for the kitchen. “And on that note, I need coffee. You’re making it; you owe me for waking me up at this ungodly hour.”

* * *

In retrospect, this had probably been a bad idea, Rachel finds herself thinking. He’s not – he wasn’t – _her_ Finn. They’d shared a sweet high school romance that had fizzled because he wasn’t interested in her, and she’s been in love with someone else for a long, long time.

But she’s booked a flight home to Lima after talking to Kurt, and she’s buried herself in auditions and workshops until then.

There were rumours that Will’s planning something to mark the first year, but Kurt hasn’t heard anything, and she’s not sure she wants to be anywhere near Santana right now.

After a quiet breakfast with her dads, she stops by the florist to buy a simple bouquet, then the music store for a pair of drumsticks to stick inside. The drive to the cemetery is quiet, as is the walk up the gravel path to a stone yet unweathered.

“Hi,” she starts. The granite doesn’t reply, naturally. The wind picks up a little; Rachel lays the bouquet she’s carrying down, and shoves her hands into the pockets of her coat. “I missed you.”

“I… it’s no point asking you how you are, I suppose.” She smiles at her own joke. “I’m… good. I think. I don’t even know if you saw everything, or you completely ceased to exist as you did before, but – I don’t want to think about it. You wouldn’t have bothered.”

“It was hard, being with you,” she confesses, “because you reminded me of Finn… my Finn. He’s not you, of course, but there were things you shared, things that are so… _Finn_. I know I'm not making much sense, but don't ask me to describe what Finn things are.”

Her shoes are killing her. She should have listened to her Dad and wore boots today. Rachel kicks off her pumps and sits beside the headstone, legs folded gracefully underneath her. “Sometimes, I think about him. He used to fill in crossword puzzles with his own letters and try to make them spell entire messages for me. He loved bacon cheeseburgers – the greasier, the better – and he bought me a pig as a Valentine’s present. He named a star after himself, because he said I was going to be a star anyway, and he wanted to be with me always.”

“I loved him,” continues Rachel. “I still love him. He was my Finn… I miss him so much.” She brushes hair from her face. “I love you too, wherever you are. I’m sort of hoping that you can actually hear me, like Quinn said she could – you don’t know her. I made a stupid wish, and she doesn’t exist here. If she had, you’d probably have dated her, she would have been head cheerleader.”

“That’s pretty cool.”

Rachel’s eyes fly open. She sees Brittany sitting opposite her, on the other side of the grave. “Brittany.”

“Hi, Rachel.”

Never in all her lives has she seen Brittany look tired. Her bright blue eyes seem a little dimmer, but the megawatt smile remains identical no matter how matter Brittanys she meets. “It’s good to see you.”

“Me too.” She springs to her feet, extending her hand to help Rachel up. “I knew you’d be here, so I came straight from the airport. Lord Tubbington is gonna be so mad at me, but I’m sure he’ll understand.” Brittany smiles down at the headstone. “I’m due for a visit anyways.”

The smile that Rachel was wearing diminishes a little. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” says Brittany, waving her off. “He’s fine. We’ll all be fine eventually.”

“Brittany…”

“Hi, Finn.” Brittany’s attention is completely focused on the headstone, and Rachel falls silent. “We were talking about chocolate fondue the other day after class, and it totally reminded me of that time you burnt your tongue even though I told you the strawberry was really, really hot.”

“I should give you some privacy,” interjects Rachel gently. Brittany catches her sleeve before she can walk away.

“It’s okay, Rachel. I’ll be visiting a few more times anyway. The cemetery’s way better than a hospital ‘cause there’s no visiting hours and rules about noise and what to bring.”

Rachel’s smile widens. “That’s true.”

Brittany returns her smile, and then turns back to Finn. “For a while, chocolate fondue and a whole lot of other stuff made me sad, because it reminded me that you’re not around to do all that stuff with me anymore, but I told the guys about you and the chocolate strawberry – I’m sorry, I promised I’d never tell but it’s not like you can come back and kill me – and it didn’t hurt as much as it used to.” She rests her hand on the smooth marble. “I think you’d be proud of me for getting stronger. I know I am. It hurt way more than bicep curls, and we got those down pat.”

“I’m gonna go catch up with Rachel now, and I’ll be back later, okay? Bye, Finn.” She turns – with a lingering glance at the stone – and then takes Rachel’s elbow. “Thanks for waiting,” says Brittany. “Let’s go to the Lima Bean. I miss their frappuccinos.”

“Me too,” admits Rachel as they leave the cemetery. She’s had infinitely better coffee in a variety of places over the years, but there’s something nostalgic about the Lima Bean. “When are you going back to Boston?”

“Next Monday.” They take Rachel’s car (she borrowed the old Fiesta for her stay in Lima) downtown. Brittany laughs when she hears her own voice coming from the car stereo. “You recorded our songs?”

“Most of my allowance went towards paying Lauren for her services and the rental of the AV equipment, but it was worth it.” Rachel realises she hasn’t stopped smiling since meeting Brittany; she welcomes it. She hasn’t smiled this much in a long time. “I videoed our competition performances as well.”

“Awesome. You should upload them to Youtube. Or Facebook, then you can tag us all.”

“I will, when I find the time.” She pulls into the parking lot outside the Lima Bean. “How are you managing your double degree when the rest of us are dying with a normal college workload?”

“It’s actually really easy,” says Brittany brightly. “My body takes over with the dancing, and the voice in my head that sounds a lot like Lord Tubbington tells me which numbers are the right ones, and how they all fit together. My job is being Brittany, which is really easy ‘cause I’m already good at being that.”

Rachel laughs. “Well, I certainly couldn’t cope, but I’ll take your word for it.”

“You should,” says Brittany very seriously. “Those guys at the maths faculty do.” Her whole demeanour changes as she spots the fall menu, and she starts enthusing about the new drinks on sale.

Rachel finds herself at a rare loss for words as she waits in line with Brittany. She’s rarely spent time with Brittany in any capacity, whether in groups or alone, and she isn’t sure how she should interact with her. Complicating matters is Finn; even though Brittany is outwardly cheerful, Rachel knows from Santana that the blonde was completely devastated by his passing, and she doesn't want to upset Brittany by mentioning him.

She remembers the first few months after Finn’s passing, when Kurt and Santana handled her with kid gloves. She knows how painful it can be to briefly forget, and then be rudely reminded that he’s gone forever.

When they reach the counter, Brittany pays for their drinks without batting an eye. They take their drinks to the corner table the Glee kids favoured during their high school days. “Tell me about New York,” says Brittany. “Are there, like, hordes of video cameras everywhere? Do people start singing and dancing in Central Park and everybody automatically knows the words?”

“Not really. It’s pretty normal. But it’s still a wonderful place to live, even if it can be a little noisy and crowded.”

“I’ll come visit you and Kurt and San during my next break,” declares Brittany.

“We’d be happy to have you.” She omits the fact that she’s not even staying at the loft at the moment.

Brittany nods. “That’s great. Rachel? Can I ask you something?”

“Of course, Britt.”

“Why are you so sad?”

Rachel nearly chokes on her coffee. “I – what?”

“You’re sad. Finn told me,” remarks the blonde, oblivious to the look Rachel is shooting her way. “You don’t have to feel bad about that, by the way. There are plenty of other Finns that didn’t die, and I’m glad that you had a Finn of your own for you to love.”

She doesn’t know what it is that she’s doing wrong in this universe, that everyone guesses her secret. “Um, Brittany, I’m not sure what you’re trying to say…”

“No one told me, if that’s what you’re worried about. Which I don’t know why you'd worry, it’s so cool to know multiple versions of the same people. Multiple Santanas are pretty cool, but kinda scary if they're all really smart. I’m pretty sure she’d know, even if she doesn't have a Finn or Lord Tubbington to give her hints.” Brittany beams at her. “Lord Tubbington helped San figure out she was a unicorn back when we were in school.”

Rachel’s long given up on trying how to understand how Brittany’s mind works (then again, she should just take it as a sign she’s not a genius). She simply sighs, and stirs her coffee. “You’re not weirded out?”

“Nah. It’s awesome, isn’t it? I’m working on a paper about parallel universes, so now I’ve got proof that I can totally write about.” Brittany leans forward on her elbows. “But that’s not the biggest thing making you sad right now. What is? Is it San? Is she being dumb again?”

“That’s difficult to answer.” She takes a deep breath, wondering where to start. “It’s related to Santana, yes, but it’s not her fault. It’s mine.”

“So _you’re_ being dumb.”

Rachel laughs. “I suppose so.”

“You shouldn’t be dumb about love. We don’t always get all our chances at it.” Here Brittany’s expression turns wistful. “You’re sad ‘cause your cake is right there, but you’re telling yourself that you can’t have it.”

“My Santanas have always been with their Brittanys,” blurts out Rachel. “I’ve never… that hasn’t changed, in the last two lives, and in my real life.”

“That doesn’t mean that Santana and Brittany will always be Brittana,” counters Brittany. “What?” she adds, in response to Rachel’s baffled look. “I’ve always thought that would be San’s and mine power couple name if San ever wanted to come out in school. We’d be the hottest couple, so we needed to have a power couple name. It just means that we’re very compatible, but that doesn’t guarantee we’d be together. Things happen. Circumstances change. The whole world would be different if I got a banana milkshake instead of a chocolate. It’s called the Flying Margarine effect or something like that.”

Rachel rests her head in her hand. “... I don’t know. I’m tired. It’s been a long, long time; all I want to do is go back to my reality. I care about Santana, but I don’t want to hurt her because I can’t love her the way she deserves.”

“You’re proving that you do by saying that.” Their eyes meet; anguished brown and calm blue. Rachel breaks the spell when she looks out the window, pressing a hand to her mouth.

“Rachel, you're not loving her any less by being with someone else now.”

“Am I?” Rachel says bitterly. This is something that has only been starting to bother her; has she been cheating by spending dream lifetimes with other people? With a variation of the same person? It makes her head hurt.

“... Can I ask you something?”

“What?”

Brittany looks at her very seriously. “If you choose not to be with Santana, would you regret it?”

She bites her lower lip. Rachel’s asked herself the same question for a long time; the answer lies, thick and heavy on her tongue, yet fully-formed. “... Yes.”

“I can't tell you what’s the right or wrong answer,” says Brittany, “I can only tell you that you should be happy, even if it doesn't last forever.”

“Oh, Britt.”

“I don’t regret loving Finn,” continues Brittany, very quietly. “It hurt to lose him. It hurts to think about spending the rest of my life with someone that isn’t him, even if I _know_ that’s dumb. But I’d never give up the time we shared, because it’s even more precious. And I know I’ll be okay someday, that I can remember the good bits without the sad bits hurting so much. Like a Band-Aid that’s not ready to come off yet, but it will when the time is right.”

“I’m… not brave enough.”

“Yes, you are. You wouldn’t have done all this living for someone you didn’t care for.” Brittany pats her hand. “She’ll forgive you. She already forgave you, I think, but she’s just waiting for you to realise that you made a mistake in the first place.”

Rachel gives her a watery smile. “I’m not even going to ask how you knew that.”

“Lord Tubbington told me. He’s better at feelings and discerning layers of reality than I am.” Brittany squeezes Rachel’s hand, and lets go. “But she can wait. She _is_ waiting, and there’s a decision you need to make right now.”

“I know,” responds Rachel, nodding. The lump in her throat tightens.

Brittany beams at her. “Just so you know, I'll be happy for you guys, even if you don't choose each other, because you're smart enough to be happy either way.”

“Thank you, Brittany.”

“Anytime. Now, tell me much about this Quinn of yours. What’s she like? I’m sure she’s a pretty remarkable person if you made all this for her.”

Rachel smiles. “She is.”

* * *

She’s lost in thought for the entire trip back. Rachel was momentarily distracted by the florist while on her way to the airport (it’s a pity she doesn’t need them right now, because the gardenias are beautiful today) but otherwise, she’s pretty clear on what she has to do.

Rachel stops by Cassie’s place to shower and get a change of clothes. The older woman is sitting on the couch with a book, glancing up at Rachel. “You’re back.”

“Hi, Cassie.”

“I wasn’t planning on going out tonight. We can order takeout. Either Thai or Chinese, you pick. Youre not allowed to order, though; it took me ages to get the taste of plant out of my mouth.”

“Actually… I was going to go home.” She gives a little awkward laugh. “I’ve been imposing on you for too long.”

“Oh. Okay. Whatever. Are you staying for dinner, at least?”

Rachel takes a moment to just look at the woman seated on the couch – who hasn't taken her eyes off the book the entire time. She has reading glasses perched on the bridge of her nose (Rachel would be horribly murdered if she ever told anyone), her hair up in a messy bun. Rachel realises Cassie picked up the habit from her.

“Cassie.”

The older woman looks up, sensing the seriousness of the situation. “What is it, Rachel?”

“Don't. Don't be so nice to me. I've been using you, and I – ”

“First of all: shut up, Ohio. God, you never did know how to do that. Second, we agreed what this is, and has to be,” she says, then adds: “Was.”

“Cassie, I'm sorry.”

“Sure you are. The one doing the dumping is always sorry. I know, I've done plenty of it in my day.” She tosses her book on the coffee table and walks over to Rachel. “I've gotta say, though, I never expected you to be the one doing the dumping; especially after you practically moved in with me – but I guess I really should have seen it coming especially after that little talk we had before you left.”

She feels like her heart’s full of ice splinters, the searing cold vying with pain in her chest. The tears won't come, though. “I'm sorry.”

“I get that. And believe it or not, I do understand. You finally know what you want in life, and it sure as hell isn't Crazy Cassandra July.” Rachel was expecting Cassie to be hurt and angry, to lash out at her; this defeated tone is unsettling. “Now fuck off. I've got to go find myself a piece of fresh meat that won't dump me on my ass.”

_And there it is._

* * *

They haven't changed the locks, thankfully. Rachel slips into the loft and inhales the scent of _home_. She’s surprised to see her room is impeccably neat as it has been since the night she left, almost three months ago. The bathroom holds her share of toiletries; even the bottle of herbal shampoo she remembers was running low has been replaced.

She’s curious. She opens the fridge to find her favourite brand of soymilk, the expiry date set for next week. A fresh carton of her favourite Greek yoghurt. There’s even a bottle of the white wine she likes to indulge in on weekends, tucked in the back.

Rachel’s still standing in a daze, absent smile on her face, when the door slams. “Kurt, did you forget to lock the damn door again? Because it’s not fair that you nag me for letting Bailey in _that one time_ and then you – Rachel?”

She whirls around. “Santana.”

“You’re back.”

“I’m home,” corrects Rachel, aware the stupid grin’s still on her face. “I’ve missed you so much. I’m sorry for everything.”

“Uh, whatever.” Santana puts the brown paper bag on the kitchen table and retreats to her room.

“Santana?”

“What?”

“... Thank you.”

There’s a grunt, and then: “Just don’t mention it again, and we’re cool.”

* * *

Kurt comes home ecstatic, laden down with Thai takeout (mostly Santana’s favourites, at Rachel’s specific request) to celebrate Rachel’s homecoming. He waves the bag of fried fish cakes outside Santana’s room, letting the aroma waft in until she emerges, grumbling. She snatches the bag out of his hand as she goes.

“Santana’s been keeping your room tidy,” he informs Rachel after his fourth glass of wine, and then grunts when Santana drives an elbow into his side. “Ow! That hurt!”

“You should have thought about that before you opened your fat mouth,” remarks Santana, stuffing food into her mouth.

“Thank you, Santana,” says Rachel.

“I said not to mention it, hobbit.”

“She’s so modest,” laughs Kurt, and then hastily scoots out of the way, wine glass clutched tightly in his hand. “Don’t hit me again. I’m shutting up now. Promise.”

“For someone who values his designer wardrobe more than his life, you’re coming dangerously close to unleashing Snix on the Armani.”

Kurt squeaks. “Not the Armani! Do you know how much that cost?”

“About the same as keeping your mouth shut.” Santana grins ferociously at him. "I kept razor blades in my hair through high school. Wanna try me?"

* * *

And maybe things are finally, finally looking up, for once since she found herself going through high school all over again. She’s found an ensemble role in the off-off-Broadway revival of _If/Then_ that neatly fits into her school schedule. It’s not for the money – she’s made quite a few good investments that mean she can live very comfortably between roles – but for something to do with herself.

Something meaningful, that doesn’t involve her bed being full and her heart empty. And Rachel thinks: _This is what I should have done with Quinn, instead of running off to Mustique in the first place._

She digs out her New York Bucket List. With every item she crosses off, she rediscovers another missing piece of Rachel Berry, and lovingly fits it back within herself. It’s a heady feeling that she hasn’t experienced since her first dream-life.

Perhaps – just, perhaps – the love of her life isn’t Broadway. Perhaps it could be more meaningful that that.

* * *

After _If/Then_ ends its run, she books a flight to Los Angeles. The cab takes her to a tidy little suburb just outside of the metropolis, a place so distant from the hustle of New York that she spends a few minutes standing on the sidewalk, soaking up the atmosphere.

The address she got from Brittany points to a small house to her right. She wonders if she’s intruding, or if he’s not home, then she’ll have come all this way for nothing.

Footsteps resound from inside, and the door unlocks before she can lose her nerve.

“Rachel?” Puck blinks at her. “Is that you? What’re you doing here?”

She swallows hard. “Hello, Noah. Am I interrupting anything? I’m sorry for showing up out of the blue, but there are some things I’ve been meaning to say to you for a long time, and I know it’s long overdue. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and reflecting, and I owe you quite a few apologies. I couldn’t just deliver them over the phone or in an email, that’s very impersonal, especially given the sensitive nature of what I need to say – ”

“Stop rambling, and come on in,” interjects Puck. He steps aside to let her in, and shuts the door behind her. Rachel follows him through the house to the kitchen, where he motions for her to sit at the counter. “Here,” he says, handing her a Corona, “I know it’s too early to be drinking, and you never liked beer, but we both could use something a bit stronger.” Puck stuffs a wedge of lemon into his own drink, and does the same for her.

She takes a sip. It burns on its way down, but she’s glad for something to do that fills up the silence that falls, aside from stealing glances at Puck.

He hasn’t changed much since the last time she saw him. He’s tanned, he's let his hair grow out, and she can see more tattoos peeking out from under the sleeves of his shirt. But the face is unmistakably the boyish Noah Puckerman that she loved.

“How’d you get this address?” he asks huskily.

“I asked Brittany for it, the last time she visited New York.”

He nods. “Okay. I thought you’d developed stalker skills, or something.” Puck tips back the bottle, drinking half the contents, before setting the bottle back with a clunk. “Now I’m a little more functional, maybe you could repeat that speech from earlier, but with less words and slower.”

“I’m sorry, Noah.”

“Yeah, I got that, but what are you sorry for?”

“Everything,” she says around the lump in her throat. “For breaking your heart, for making you think that you aren’t important to me. You’ve done so much for me, Noah, and I’ve repaid you by treating you like dirt.”

He rests his chin in his hand, leaning over the table to regard her silently. “Uh-huh.”

“I shouldn’t have kissed you. I was a mess, and you were someone familiar that I’ve never been able to forget, but that doesn’t excuse the abominable way I behaved.”

He doesn’t say anything, but continues to stare at her.

“I should have apologised sooner. I should have gone after you, but I didn’t, because I was scared. I didn’t know what I was doing anymore, and it scared me so much, and I just – I shut down.” She swallows hard, and then continues: “You were everything to me once, Noah. I care about you, but – ”

“But you’re not in love with me,” says Puck.

“I’m sorry.”

“It took you a while to figure that out, Rachel. It’s a good thing I wasn’t waiting.”

She bows her head. Guilty tears prick at her eyes.

“Guess we weren’t meant to be, then.”  

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologising, Rachel. It’s not gonna make everything magically better, and that’s the only thing you’ll end up saying.” She feels a warm and gentle pressure on her chin, and lets him lift her head up. “Hey,” says Puck softly, “babe, chill. I’m not mad at you.”

“You should be,” she says, voice clear despite her tears.

“You know me better than that.”

Rachel pulls away from his touch to wipe at her eyes. “You’re going to forgive me, just like that?”

He shrugs. “Well, I was still a little mad at you for working me up and then running off,” says Puck, and she lets out a little scandalised laugh, “but yeah. You’ve forgiven me for worse things, Rachel, and I’ve been a bigger screw-up at life.”

“I hurt you.”

“And I was mad at you for that, but I’ve gotten over it now,” he says. “We were together for nearly two years, babe. I know you don’t have a single mean bone in your body, that you weren’t being intentionally cruel.”

“And what about the six months I took to apologise?”

He laughs.  “Okay, _that_ was a little harder to forgive. Maybe I grew up a bit. Mellowed in my old age.” Puck clears his throat. “I know you. You probably had your reasons. Though I think that if you’d dragged your feet a little longer, I’d have gone back to New York to demand my apology. Jumped onstage or somethin’. You’d have loved it.”

“I would have,” she admits. “But you’re right, Noah. I had a good reason.” Rachel reaches into her purse, pulls a tattered piece of paper out. She lays it on the table between them, smoothing out the creases with the flat of her hand. “I finished the list.”

He whistles lowly. “Everything?”

“Everything.”

Puck grins at her. “I’m proud of you.”

She takes her time to meet his eyes. “I am, too. Now.”

He spreads his hands out, palms-up; she places her hands in his, and smiles when he squeezes her fingers.

* * *

She lets Puck drive her to the airport the next morning so she can catch the next flight back into New York, on the condition he come visit for Hanukkah. Puck just laughs. “Face it, Jewbabe; you just like me showing up on your doorstep,” he says, waggling his eyebrows, and receives a smack to his chest for his pains.

The banter dies away when she’s waiting in the departure lounge. Her flight is due to leave in half an hour, and Rachel’s still standing with him outside the gates.

“I loved you,” he says abruptly.

She closes her eyes, and leans into him. She feels an arm wrap comfortably around her shoulders, holding her tight as a kiss is dropped on her hair.

“Be happy, Rachel.”

* * *

(“Noah? Do you think, in another time, another life, we could have…?”

“... Yeah. I do.”)

* * *

Back in New York, she and Santana – for lack of a better word – grow together. She wants nothing more than to confront Santana with everything she has to say, to put it all out in one dramatic conversation. It’s happened plenty of times in her life (lives).

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she waits.

* * *

After approximately a year of thankless work since coming to New York, Santana had enrolled in some business courses at community college while she figured out what she wanted to do with her life. She’s good at her work – or so Rachel has heard – but seems rather indifferent to it.  

Therefore, it’s a surprise when Rachel comes home to find her bent over a guitar, tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth in concentration as she plinks out chords following a YouTube tutorial.

“I didn’t know you were interested in guitar,” she says.

Santana looks up at her, and then leans over to hit the pause button. “I learned the basics from Puck,” she says, “but I never really got into it until recently.” adds Santana, patting the neck of the guitar.

“That’s nice,” says Rachel, and means it. She can feel Santana watching her carefully, waiting for a reaction; she pretends she doesn’t notice, continuing to smile at her roommate. “We’re having bolognese tonight, okay? I bought cheesecake for dessert, from that place you like.”

“Uh – thanks.”

* * *

 She and Kurt meet up for coffee before they head back to the loft. “How was it?” asks Rachel.

He pulls a face. “Fifty guys, all triple threats, crammed into a studio to learn a song and dance routine. What do you think?”

“I think you nailed it.”

Kurt laughs at her. “I did, but so did half the room. It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there. It wasn’t a complete waste, though; I got a few phone numbers,” he adds with a wink.

Rachel snorts into her coffee. “Trust you to always come out on top.”

“Count on it, darling; and in more ways than one.” He takes advantage of her scandalised gasp to steal a cookie from her plate. “And you? How did yours go?”

“Pretty good. I think I’ve got a decent chance at a callback.”

“Of course you’ve got a decent chance. You’ve been in a show already. Rachel Berry’s star is on the rise.”

“Off-off-Broadway; and as a character with a number in her name,” says Rachel with a smile. “Still a long, long way to go.”

“But nevertheless, there is motion.” He toasts her with his coffee. “Here’s to us, and our dreams, as humble as they may be.”

Rachel gives him an amused look. “Kurt, your dream is to be the first countertenor to play the Phantom.”

“Relatively humble,” he amends.

* * *

 The guitar disappears after a few weeks; Rachel doesn't have the courage to ask what happened to it. Santana now sports a bulky pair of headphones and her laptop screen has lots of squiggly lines over it.

“My professor gave me the license for some mixing software,” says Santana, when she catches Rachel peeping.

“Your professor?” She’s heard stories about the cranky old man; she can't imagine him producing music.

Santana catches the look on her face and cackles. “Not Dr. Dillamond, Rachel,” she says, sounding amused, “that old goat wouldn't be able to drop a beat if it slipped through his fingers. I signed up for a class in music production, just for the shits and giggles.”

Santana looks so excited, Rachel can't help but catch her enthusiasm. “That's great, Santana. You've always been a talented musician, and I'm glad that you're pursuing that area.”

“Uh, yeah,” replies her roommate, looking slightly bemused.

“As in,” hastily adds Rachel, “I'm happy that you're happy with what you choose to study. You never gave me the impression that you loved or hated studying business, only that it was a practical skill to have.” Her expression softens. “But you light up when you're working with music. It’s nice.”

“I do?”

“Yes.” She’s made vaguely uncomfortable by Santana’s perplexed scrutiny, and starts racking her brains for a subtle change in topic. “Are you hungry? Shall we order takeout?”

She thinks she sees a hint of a smirk on Santana’s face. “I'm starved. I wants cheeseburgers and fries, and I wants them yesterday.”

Rachel wrinkles her nose. “I will never understand your insistence on perpetuating animal cruelty.”

“I can't help that they taste so damn good.” Rachel shakes her head, and makes for the stack of takeout menus on their coffee table outside. “Rachel! Get me the extra bacon double with chili fries and I promise I will do my own laundry tonight!”

Kurt sticks his head in, looking vaguely amused. “Don't make promises you can't keep.”

“No one asked for your coiffed and primped input, Hummel.”

He turns to Rachel, who is smirking at him. “Was that a compliment from Santana Diabla Lopez? I'm taking that as a compliment. Rachel, you're my witness.”

* * *

She isn't home very often, not after scoring the role of Dawn in the NYADA production of _Waitress_. Kurt, similarly, is just as busy; adding schoolwork into the mix means that they don't see each other very often in the house.  

But Rachel can't help but notice that she’s seeing Santana more frequently, with her headphones on and working at her laptop. She doesn't have the time to talk, though; their interactions consist mostly of packages of food with little notes attached, and the “hi” and “bye”s exchanged while multi-tasking, or while someone’s on the way out the door.

One afternoon, she receives a text from Santana asking what time she’ll be home. Rachel’s glad to reply that she’ll be back in time for dinner, _with_ dinner, because the director – overbearing asshole that he is – decided they won't need to stay late to get the sequence _just right_.

“I bought Mexican tonight, if that's okay with you,” calls Rachel into the house.

“That's more than okay,” she hears Santana call back. Her roommate yanks off the chunky headphones and takes the bags from her, unpacking the food on the kitchen table. “No extra salsa?”

“They charge extra.”

“Ugh. Asses. You should've flashed some cleavage. It takes you places.”

“Bite me.”

Santana cackles. “Been there, done that.” She pours them both the last of the cheap red wine. Rachel takes the glass from her gratefully.

“So, what's on your mind?”

“Oh. Yeah.” She hasn't seen Santana look uncertain in such a long time, and automatically some of Rachel’s playfulness fades away. “I need a favour.”

“Yes.”

“You haven't even heard what I'm gonna ask!”

Rachel shrugs. “I'd do it anyway.”

Santana turns a little pink. “Thanks. But, uh… I'm putting together a portfolio for my application to NYU's music production diploma, and I want you to record something for it.”

“Anything that involves me singing, I'm always gonna say yes.” Rachel is equally as casual as Santana, though inside she’s squealing in excitement.

Her roommate grins. “Yeah, okay. I should've known.”

“Why so hesitant, Santana?”

“It’s, uhm, something I wrote.”

Rachel gasps. “You wrote a song? That's amazing!” _Trouty Mouth_ drifts to the front of her mind; Rachel tries not to giggle. “Santana, I'm honoured that you want me to record a song you wrote, but I confess that I don't understand why you're not singing it yourself. You have a lovely voice, after all.”

Santana squirms a little in her seat. “Yeah, I thought about it but my voice really isn't suited to the song.”

“Your songwriting skills are better than your singing? Is that what you're trying to tell me?”

Santana flips her off. “Very funny, Streisand. Had your fun?”

“More or less.” She rests her elbows on the table as she leans forward. “Let me finish my dinner, and then you’re gonna play this amazing song for me.”

* * *

She loves it. It’s steeped with feelings and beautiful imagery, although she doesn't understand why Santana insists she can't sing it; it’s well within the other girl’s vocal range, and her smoky, sensual voice wraps around the words so well.

But who is she to question artistic decisions? Mostly, Rachel’s happy that Santana’s opening up to her again.

Rachel insists on going the extra mile for her. She calls in a few favours and gets Hannah (a senior music major and one of her former drunken hook-ups) to record the backing music for Santana’s song.

They rent a small but professional studio to record. Santana runs her hand over the mixboard, looking overwhelmed.

“You okay?”

Santana nods. “A little stunned that this is really happening.”

“It is,” says Rachel briskly. She pats Santana’s hand and goes into the recording room, hoisting the headphones around her neck. “Anytime you're ready,” she says, flashing Santana a thumbs-up and a cheesy grin.

“I am having soooo many second thoughts about this right now,” mutters Santana over the intercom, and she hits the play button.

* * *

For all the anal-retentiveness that Rachel displays when it comes to music, Santana is just as bad, if not worse. They go ten minutes over their allotted time – the irate manager glaring daggers at them through the door – until Santana proclaims herself satisfied with the vocals.

“I’ll have Hannah give me the raw audio files as soon as she can,” says Rachel. She’s sitting on the counter, watching as Santana packs her things, tucking their session’s work away carefully.

“Thanks, Rach.” She hoists her bag over her shoulder. “I really appreciate all of this.”

“You don't have to thank me,” responds Rachel brightly, interrupting herself with a scandalised noise when Santana flips off the manager as they leave the studio (“Santana! Burning bridges this early in your fledgling musical career is _not_ advisable!”). “I'm so glad to be a part of this project. I love your song.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Santana’s gone a little pink; Rachel grins and does her best not to comment on it.

* * *

 Santana won't let her listen to the final song, but she does accept Rachel’s help in putting the rest of her portfolio together, and even gives Rachel free reign in selecting what goes inside “that showcases her range, versatility, and talent”.

“You should submit a vocal performance,” says Rachel.

Santana looks up at her from the foot of her bed, scowling. “I’m applying to Steinhardt, not Tisch.”

“I know, but you have a lovely voice. Don’t hold back anything, you know?” She sits up.

“My portfolio’s varied enough. I shouldn't be losing the focus, which is _bitches, don't miss out on the next greatest thing to hit music_ ,” says Santana, making airquotes with her fingers.

Rachel’s mouth falls open in her outrage. “Santana Lopez, I did _not_ say that. Certainly not in those exact words.”

“Close enough,” smirks Santana.

She’s about to return the playful banter when she detects an undercurrent to Santana’s words. “You’ll get in. You've nothing to worry about.”

“I wasn't worrying about that.”

Rachel scoffs. “It’s okay to be worried; NYU is one of the best schools in the country, and Steinhart produces some of the finest in the music industry. But I wouldn't be worried about _your_ chances of getting in; there’s a difference.”

“Don't you ever get tired of being so optimistic, Pollyanna?” Santana’s blushing; Rachel recognises the deflection but chooses to go along with it. She’s gotten her point across loud and clear.

She laughs. “Only when talking to Debbie Downers like you.”

* * *

 It’s a rare fall day in which they have no classes or work, so Kurt and Rachel had planned to spend the day doing absolutely nothing.

She wakes early out of habit and finds herself unable to go back to sleep. Rachel decides to get breakfast for her housemates; based on the schedule stuck to their fridge, Santana has the day off as well.

Much to her surprise, Santana is nursing a coffee when she comes out of her room, surrounded by brown paper bags. “Good morning, Santana,” says Rachel brightly. “It’s nice to see you; it feels like it’s been ages since we last saw each other.”

“God, midget, one day I swear you will learn how to say ‘good morning’ like a normal person,” says Santana fondly with a shake of her head.

“And one day you will be able to say anything without an insult,” responds Rachel, “but I guess today isn't our day.”

“Accept these cronuts in lieu of an apology.” She pushes the box over, just as Kurt pads out of his room.

“I love you,” he says, grabbing one of the paper bags and pulling a bagel out.

“I hope you were saying that to me, and not the bagel.”

“It’s too early to clarify anything.”

Rachel smirks, hiding it behind her coffee. “Which reminds me… what is the felicitous occasion that merits your getting up before the crack of noon to buy us breakfast?”

Santana matches her smirk. “Bitches, you are looking at NYU’s newest student.” She pulls out a fat envelope, the end looking like it was ripped off.

“Oh my god!” Rachel rockets out of her seat, flinging her arms around Santana.

“That’s amazing, Santana!” shrieks Kurt, joining the group hug. “I knew you could do it!”

* * *

 So they’re all students together again, and Rachel couldn't be happier that Santana’s finally found her way.

(She would have been equally as happy if Santana wanted to keep drifting through life as a perpetually pissed-off diner waitress, but maybe she’s just biased.)

Santana was able to transfer her business credits from community college to fulfil her general requirements, something she’s immensely happy about; now that she’s gotten her purpose, she doesn't want to waste any more time.

“You could write songs about your time as a waitress,” points out Rachel, “Billy Joel did it.”

Santana snorts. “Yeah, because people want to hear me sing about wrong orders and back-to-back shifts.”

“I know I'd want to,” Rachel grins.

“You're weird.”

“Hey, weird people are interesting people.”

Santana rolls her eyes. “Yeah, you keep telling yourself that and maybe people’ll start to believe it sometime this century.” Laughing, she pushes off the couch and heads to the fridge.

* * *

The night before graduation, Rachel is making her way home from the theatre when she hears music.

It grows louder the closer she gets to home, so she guesses that Santana is composing on the fire escape as she’s started doing in recent months. It’s such an artist cliche, but Rachel doesn’t have the heart to point it out. In any case, Santana is someone who marches to the beat of her own drum and she wouldn’t give a shit if she’s following any trend.

Eventually, she gathers some things and climbs outside.

“Oh, hey, Rachel.”

Rachel holds up the bottle of wine in greeting. “I thought you might appreciate this. The weatherman said it might be a little chilly tonight.”

“Hell yes.” Santana scoots over to make room for Rachel on the blanket. Rachel settles down, leaning back on her elbows, taking in the night view of her city. It’s been her city for close to four years now, and she has yet to tire of it.

There’s no further conversation. Santana is occupied with the guitar in her lap, twanging out plaintive melodies and strumming chords. Rachel tilts her head to one side to watch her out of the corner of her eye. Santana’s tongue pokes out of the corner of her mouth as she concentrates. Occasionally, she mutters something under her breath as she adjusts her fingers on the fretboard, testing harmonies. Her hair falls into her eyes but Santana is too preoccupied to notice.

In the glow of city lights, she is beautiful. She has always been beautiful.

Rachel can’t remember the last time she felt so safe and like she belongs, being out here on a ledge, but the pieces seems to click together the longer she stares at Santana, and she knows she doesn’t have to make things so complicated.

Santana starts to sing, her voice slow and smoky:  

 _I'm not scared of you now_  
_Or so I say_  
_There's no reason to run_  
_Although I may_  
_I'm not as sure as I seem_  
_This much I know_  
_What does it mean you leave and I follow_  
  
_I could try to forget what you do when I let you get_  
_Through to me but then you do it over again_  
_I could rage like a fire and you'd bring rain I desire_  
_Til you get to me on my morningside_  
  
_Keep my distance I tried_  
_No use_  
_But no matter the miles_ _  
I'm back to you_

Rachel holds her tongue until the song ends. “... That’s your song…?” Again, she wonders why Santana had to ask her to sing it for her portfolio; Santana’s jazzy, acoustic rendition sends a pang through her heart.

“I wrote it for you.”

“Santana.”

“I couldn't sing something so personal and put it out there for other people.” She sets down the guitar. “I don’t… I’m not sure what you do to me, Rachel,” whispers Santana. “I’ve never felt this way about anyone before – not even Brittany. I wasn’t even looking, and somehow, you’ve become this part of me.”

“I want you,” Rachel tells her seriously. “I’ve known that for a long time now.”

“How long?”

“Since Mr. Schuester’s wedding.”

Santana closes her eyes. “Jesus, Rachel.”

“I thought it would be the same with you, like it was for the others. I was scared that I’d destroyed our friendship. But you… you were my best friend before that. And as time passed, I wanted more. I didn’t just want you as my best friend.”

“But I was a mess,” continues Rachel. “I knew that much. I would just mess us up, and I’d lose you if I tried anything back then. The night you walked in on Noah and me… that was rock-bottom. I knew I had to do something, or I’d lose you for good.”

“You never said anything.”

“I can’t make you love me, Santana. I don’t even think I deserved that, the way I was. I’d lost myself somewhere along the way, but it wasn’t fair for me to hope that being with you would help me find what I was missing. I had to do it on my own and become someone that deserved to be with you.”

Santana sets aside her guitar. “And I was waiting for you. I thought whatever we’d shared had passed, and I tried to get over you.”

Whatever Rachel wants to say next is lost when Santana kisses her hard. She whimpers when a tongue swipes across her lower lip and a hand rests in her lap. “God,” she pants, letting Santana press her back onto the blanket, “not out here – ”

Then Santana’s mouth is on her neck, and she loses all coherent thought. “Do you know,” whispers Santana, “how long I’ve been wanting to do this again?”

Rachel whimpers. Her fingers tangle in Santana’s long dark hair, undoing her ponytail. “About as long as I have?”

“Possibly.” A hand slides up Rachel’s shirt as she’s being lowered to the blanket. Santana’s just as impatient as she remembers – and also very, very good at what she does. “We can’t – outside – _neighbours_ !” Rachel tries again between increasingly filthy kisses, torn between awareness of their surroundings and having this gorgeously infuriating woman right _now_.

Santana smirks. “You’ll have to be quiet then,” she says, voice muffled as she slides lower down Rachel’s body.

“ _Fuck_.”

“That’s the idea.”

“Santana,” she hisses, “wait, wait. Stop.”

“What? I'm sorry, did I hurt you?”

“No, you didn't. Just – are you sure? About this?” asks Rachel timidly.

Santana sighs. “Honestly? You want to talk, _now_?”

“Look what happened the last time we postponed that.”

“Fine, point taken.” She crawls backward off Rachel and sits up, Indian-style. “So, talking. I want you, Rachel. I think I've wanted you since we were in high school.”

“But I don't remember exactly when I started loving you,” she says before Rachel can open her mouth. “It was – you were so fucking infuriating, and you were either pissing me off, or being so damned adorable. There was no middle ground.”

“I love Brittany. I always will. But you… I'm in love with _you_ , Rachel fucking Berry.”

“I don't deserve you,” repeats Rachel.

“That's what you think. Yeah, you've said and done stupid things, and you've hurt me, but – you also sit with me at the end of a crappy day with my favourite ice cream. You understand that I say horrible things I don't even mean. You do that fucking creepy mind reading thing and know what I need before I do.”

Santana comes closer as she speaks, until she’s close enough that Rachel can move forward an inch or two to kiss her.

“There are a lot of things I need you to know first,” breathes Rachel. “I can't keep secrets from you, anymore.”

“So, tell me.”

And she does.

* * *

Brittany makes the trip up to New York as promised. She doesn’t seem too surprised to be offered what technically still is Santana’s room (because Rachel’s room is now Rachel and Santana’s).

“I’m so happy for you guys,” she tells them over dinner.

Kurt groans. “I’m not. They go at it like rabbits.” He fixes them with a mock glare. “You owe me a new pair of earplugs, preferably industrial-grade.”

“Kurt!”

Gallantly, Santana reaches over to muss Kurt’s hair in defence of her girlfriend’s virtue. “You’re just jealous you’re not getting any action, Hummel.”

“No, I miss uninterrupted sleep without earplugs,” he says mournfully, scowling as he flattens his hair back into place.

* * *

“I told her.”

Brittany smiles. “How did she take it?”

“Surprisingly calmly.” Santana had stopped her halfway to drain the rest of the wine as she digested what Rachel was saying – and downed another bottle at the end of it all. “She said it explained a lot about how weird I was being, how I always seemed to know what was going on.” Rachel smiles wistfully at the memory of the look on Santana’s face.

“Told you she’s smart.”

“I should know better than to ever doubt you, Brittany.”

“Exactly,” she replies with a smug smile. “I don't think I need to ask, but are you happy?”

“I am,” she admits. Rachel leans forward, resting her elbows on the railing of the fire escape. “I feel like the luckiest girl in the world.” An involuntary grin lights up her face at the thought of Santana.

Brittany smiles. "I haven't seen San this happy in a long time. You're good for her."

"She's the one who's good for me. I've done... so many things I'm not proud of. Both here and otherwise. She seems to understand."

"Love's amazing like that. Like apple slices and cheese; they're pretty awesome on their own, but together they create a whole new brand of awesomeness that no one ever thought could exist."

Rachel chuckles. "Exactly."

* * *

(She loves the adrenaline rush of a good show. Her cast and crew were magical, her performance flawless, the audience was spellbound.

Rachel’s not in a hurry to leave. She walks up the now-quiet aisle, finding a seat from which to contemplate the darkened stage.

“You were wonderful.”

Rachel hums. “Tonight was magical. That's all.”

“Unusually modest, Ms. Berry,” says Quinn teasingly. She approaches the row of seats where Rachel is sitting, taking the one next to her. “Don't doubt the potency of my good-luck kisses.”

“I never have.” Rachel reaches for Quinn’s hand,which is on the armrest. Her fingers surreptitiously stroke the underside of the pale wrist – searching for the scars – and she smiles wider when she finds none. She brings Quinn’s hand to her lips. “Thank you.”

“I should be thanking you, too.”

“What have I done to deserve that?”

“For being brave. For forgiving yourself. For accepting that it’s okay to want things, and letting yourself have them.” Quinn leans over. “I was with you on the ledge that night,” she whispers, her voice soothing.

Rachel closes her eyes. “Can you even do that? No, forget I said that. I don't know how this works anymore.” She feels no shame or guilt, surprisingly enough. “I'm sorry.”

“I'm proud of you.”

Rachel opens her eyes, turns her head slightly so she can press her forehead to Quinn’s. “You always say that.”

“Because I always am.” Quinn lets Rachel drop her head to her shoulder, wrapping an arm around Rachel’s shoulders to hold her close. “I'm happy that you're happy.”

Rachel kisses her neck in response.

Just when Rachel’s dozing off, lulled by the soft sounds of their breathing in the empty theatre, Quinn stirs. “Rachel?” says Quinn, brushing her cheek, “it’s time to go.”

“Go? Where?”

“Home, of course,” says Quinn, sounding amused. “The show’s over tonight. Doesn't mean there’s no show tomorrow, or the day after that.”

“Oh,” she replies. “With you?”

“... Not exactly.”

Rachel understands. She kisses Quinn, and kisses her again, slowly, as though trying to imprint the sensation into her memory. “Okay. I love you.”

Quinn merely beams. Rachel’s grip grows slack, and she watches Quinn walk away.)

* * *

Rachel opens her eyes, blinking them rapidly to clear her mind. She’s not in the Gielgud, she’s in bed. It’s late afternoon, judging from the sun streaming through the window. She’s not alone, judging from the arm around her waist and the soft breathing on the back of her neck.

She shuts her eyes again to lose herself in the moment. Eventually, she turns in Santana’s arms to kiss the sleeping woman softly, tuck her head in the crook of her neck, and go back to sleep.

* * *

Jesse breezes back into her life with a bouquet of flowers and a wide grin.  

“Rachel. You look as beautiful as ever, perhaps more so.”

“Jesse,” she returns. “To what do I owe this displeasure?”

He presses a hand to his heart, fluttering his eyelashes. “You wound me. I'm only here to say hello; we haven't spoken in what, over ten years?”

“Then the flowers?”

“To congratulate you on your recent Tony win for _A Single Gardenia_ ,” says Jesse, presenting her the bouquet.

Santana, seemingly sensing her girlfriend’s distress, glides over to wrap a possessive arm around Rachel’s waist. Rachel tries not to laugh when she sees Jesse’s face fall a little. “If it isn’t Jesse St. Who Cares,” exclaims Santana in fake excitement, “it’s nice to see you looking well. Losing that Best Leading Actor Tony for the third year running must have been _so_ hard on you.” She glances at the bouquet. “You really shouldn't have. This looks like your entire month’s salary, and we shouldn't be taking that from you.”

“Santana Lezpez,” he returns coolly. “It’s good to see you too. You’re looking well, but I suppose that’s to be expected; the golden opportunity to ride on Rachel’s coattails doesn’t come around every day.” He examines his fingernails idly. “Not to demean your talent – which I'm certain you have no shortage of – but when your friend practically carries you to a Grammy with her vocal prowess, one would be a fool not to take it.”

“Santana is my _fiancée,_ Jesse,” says Rachel firmly, cutting through the honeyed barbs. “And yes, she is incredibly talented; it’s so kind of you to say so. I mean, she has an _Academy Award_ for Best Original Song.” She glares at Santana. _Be nice,_ she mentally commands, _he’s not worth it_.

Santana shot her a quick sideways glance as if to say _really, Rach?_ before sighing and offering her hand to Jesse. “It’s nice to see you again,” intones Santana in a calculatedly flat tone she knows drives Rachel insane – and not in a good way.

“I'm afraid I can't say the same for you.”

Santana shoots Rachel a look that clearly says, _See! He started it!_ Rachel sighs. She wonders why she ever dated – and is dating – these children. “ _Jesse_. If you can't be civil, I'm afraid we’ll have to end this conversation here.”

Jesse smiles, honey-sweet, at them both. “Please don't trouble yourselves on my account. I just wanted to wish you all the best in life, especially on this felicitous day that we reconnected by chance. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe I'm overdue for Patti. I’ll see you around, Rachel. Santana.”

“I can't believe I was married to you,” mutters Rachel under her breath as he walks away. She’d completely forgotten how much of an asshole Jesse could be.

“Sorry, did you say something, Rachel?”

“Nothing. Just that Jesse’s a jerk.” She kisses Santana’s cheek. “Thank you for trying to be nice, by the way.”

Santana laughs. “You’re welcome,” she says, sliding her hand into Rachel’s.

* * *

(“You know, forever’s just something that looks good on greeting cards and Hallmark shows.” Quinn shook her head as she took another sip of her martini. “You get – what? – fifty years with the love of your life, then someone dies. Nothing to show for it at the end, just a cold grave.”

Rachel turned her head to grin lazily at Quinn. “You're maudlin when you're drunk.”

“And you're still wordier than a thesaurus, even when shit-faced.” Quinn lifted her glass in a mock toast. “You should be celebrating your return to the single life.”

“I wasn't actually in love with Jesse. There’s not much to celebrate.”

“Well, you must have liked him enough to marry him. That counts for something, right?”

Rachel glanced at her. “Is Noah someone you can see yourself being with forever?”

“This isn't about me. This is about you, Rachel.”

“No, this is me attempting to carry on a conversation with you despite your being very drunk. You talked about forever just now. Is he the love of your life?”

Quinn smiled, all teeth. “I probably won't remember any of this tomorrow morning, so I’ll humour you and answer that. Honestly? I don't think I've ever been in love with anyone.”

“Forever’s an awfully long time to be with someone you're not in love with.”

Quinn chuckled. “Forever’s not actually forever. It’s only about fifty years.”

“Fifty years can seem like forever if you're not happy.”

“Yes, but the memory of happiness? That’s forever.”

Rachel grinned. “Very poetic, Quinn Fabray. I'll drink to that,” she said, clinking her glass to Quinn’s.)

* * *

Rachel opened her eyes and found herself back on her couch. She blinked and stretched, letting out a soft sigh as her muscles moved, body no longer old and worn.

Her companion barely looked up from the drink in his hand. “Welcome back,” he said, raising the glass to her.

She grimaced. “For once, I’m glad to be back. Chemotherapy was not fun.”

“How delightful. Poisoning everything to kill the rogue cells.”

Rachel chose to ignore him. “My three wishes are done. What are you still doing here?”

“Finishing my drink. I’m not in a hurry.” He took another leisurely sip, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “You’re an interesting one, Rachel Berry.”

“I’ve been told I’m many things.” She adjusted her seating position so she has a leg curled underneath herself. “Interesting isn’t usually one of them.”

“Most humans would ask for something more – _lasting_ ,” he said as though she hadn't spoken, earning himself a scowl, “like money, or earthly power, the undivided lust of another human. Things that seem to bring happiness.” The man examined his glass. “It was harder taking what I needed, but you’d be glad to hear I managed it regardless.”

Rachel rolled her eyes. “Yes. Completely thrilled.”

“So sarcastic. Didn't you enjoy yourself? Didn't you get the answers you wanted?” He gestures expansively with a hand. “Very few get the opportunity to do things all over again.”

“... Yes.” She looked down at her lap. “It was hard at times, but… _illuminating_. Nothing about Quinn Fabray is easy but she was worth it. Each and every one of those lives was worth it.” A lump formed in her throat. “I've learned… so much.”

He shrugged, distinctly unimpressed. “So I've gathered. Even the complete removal of Quinn Fabray couldn't shake your single-mindedness.”

She laughed. “That was your doing? Really?”

“I refrained from commenting on your petty human failings. Surely you could return the courtesy,” he shot back.

“I don't care,” she said with a snort.

“A surprisingly lacklustre performance from someone the humans are quite adamant is a talented actress.”

“Yes,” sneered Rachel, “I’m sure you’d know all about wearing a mask.”

That prompted a smile from him which was quickly masked by his glass. “In any case, I’m glad my time hasn’t been wasted.” He vanished the glass with a gesture, getting to his feet. “Goodbye, Rachel Berry.”

“I hope we won’t meet again.”

For the first time, she saw a hint of his true demonic nature beneath the facade, and it set all her hairs on end. “Mmm, I hope so too.”

When he leaves, the perpetual dread that seemed to have settled on her heart dissipated. Rachel sat in silence, unfamiliar with the lack of tension –

A knock on the door startled her out of her thoughts.

Rachel approached the door tentatively. She unlocked it, and flung it open.

The smiling bellhop nodded at her. “Room service, Ms. Berry.”

“Oh. Yes. Thank you.” She directed him to leave the trolley just inside the door, and tipped him generously. Once the door was locked behind the bellhop, Rachel reached for the decanter of water, gulping down glass after glass of water to soothe her parched throat, stopping only when the decanter is empty.

* * *

**The First Morning**

* * *

She slowly opened her eyes, blinking rapidly. Rachel felt dislocated, awkward; her limbs were stiff and heavy, her head swirling and the ringing in her ears hadn’t stopped –

“Shit,” she muttered, scrambling to answer the landline phone. “Hello?”

“Ms. Berry?”

“Yes, speaking.”

“It’s David here. I have good news for you; we’ve managed to find a seaplane owner whose schedule just freed up, and would be willing to take you to Barbados today. Would you still be interested?”

Rachel swallowed the urge to snap at him for asking pointless questions. “Yes, of course! What time, and where should I go?”

“Nine o’clock at Endeavour Bay. It’s a green seaplane. The pilot’s name is Turner.” She heard clicking sounds in the background. “I’ve taken the liberty of booking you a connecting flight to New York from Barbados; I’ll pass you the flight itinerary later.”

“Thank you so much, David,” she said. She definitely didn’t regret throwing her credit card at him last week and telling him to charge everything there (although she now regretted the entire _throwing_ part). Rachel made another mental note to triple his tip.

* * *

David was waiting with her credit card, her receipts from her hotel stay, and a neat packet containing all the additional details she needed when she arrived at the bay. A green seaplane was parked near the jetty, bobbing with the currents.

“Thank you for everything, David,” said Rachel, pressing a wad of bills into his hand, smiling at the muffled intake of breath. “I’m sorry for having been so horrible earlier.”

“It’s alright.” He smiled, warm and genuine. “It was truly a pleasure having you here, Ms. Berry.”

She waved goodbye and climbed into the plane, watching as Mustique got smaller and smaller.

Somewhere from the beach, a man raised a glass to the plane in a toast.

* * *

She had just the right amount of time before boarding her first class flight back to New York, and so Rachel made a phone call.

“Quinn, it’s me,” she said when the call goes straight to voicemail, just as she knew it would. “I’m sorry for disturbing you. Please don’t hang up, please, just listen to me this once. Just – I need you – no, no, I’m sorry. We talked about this before, and I’m working on it, I promise. I – sorry. I shouldn’t – ” Rachel cut herself off, exhaled, and continued, “I – I left Mustique. I don’t know if you knew I went there, I just needed space away after what happened and I – I’m sorry for everything, Quinn. I’m sorry I didn’t try. I'm sorry it seemed like I didn't care. I’m sorry I said all those things which I didn’t even mean, and I – ”

She had to stop talking because she’s crying so hard. Rachel sniffled, trying to bring herself under control because the recording had a time limit. “I know you don’t want to talk to me, and you never want to see me again, and I respect your decision, but I can’t – I need to tell you that I’m sorry. And then I’ll leave you alone. Please, Quinn. I need you to know that I realise now that I was stupid and foolish and that I threw away the best thing that ever happened to me. I – please.”

“I'm not – this isn't me begging for a second chance. I can't – I don't deserve that. I've known you for so long, and I never really listened.”

Rachel disconnected the call. She dropped her phone beside her, suddenly exhausted, covering her face with a shaky hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end.
> 
>  
> 
> ~~no I'm lying there will be an epilogue. Actual contents of said epilogue however...~~
> 
>  
> 
> Cookies for spotting the throwaway reference to _Wicked_.


	5. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The author's notes can be found on my Tumblr [here](http://yumi-michiyo.tumblr.com/post/162861973346/for-you-id-burn-the-length-and-breadth-of-sky).

Her first thought when the flight touched down on time was that she was pleased that she wouldn't have to tell the flight attendant off for giving her inaccurate information on their time of arrival. She quashed the thought guiltily.

Rachel was out of her seat the moment the seatbelt light flashed off. She fidgeted impatiently all through customs, snatched up her bag from the baggage carousel, and strode through the arrivals terminal.

She was aware of cameras flashing as she walked but paid them no heed.

"Ms. Berry!" said a young man, jostling for space at her elbow, holding a recorder in her direction. "An anonymous source told us that you went to Mustique to get away from your ex-husband; any comment?"

"We heard from a reliable source that you had a secret rendezvous with your new fling," said another woman. "Care to comment?"

"No comment," she told them tightly, flashing a strained version of her red-carpet smile, and headed for the taxi queue.

"Taxi!" yelled Rachel, flailing her arm at the first car in the queue.

"I'm hurt, Rachel. Surely we've been friends long enough for you to be able to call me by my name?"

"Santana?" said Rachel in disbelief, swiveling to stare at her friend. Santana, casual in jeans and a sweater, had her arms crossed over her chest in mock anger. "What are you – don't you have work?"

Santana rolled her eyes. "It's Saturday, Rachel, and normal people don't usually work on Saturdays. Well, okay, so I might also have convinced Kevin that it was in his best interest to end our case meeting a little earlier," she said with a shrug. "Come here, Midget; you – _oooof._ "

The rest of Santana's words were lost when Rachel practically tackled her in a hug. "I've missed you so much," muttered Rachel, squeezing Santana tighter.

"Uh, yeah, that's great?" Santana's hands scrabbled at Rachel's shoulders. "Okay, okay. Get _off_. God, what's gotten into you? I'm not Fabgay; you know that, right?" She successfully pried Rachel off, holding her at arm's length. "Holy fuck, Rachel, you look like shit. You came from Mustique and not Afghanistan, right?"

"Santana!"

"I'm keeping it real. If you were gonna run off without telling anybody, you could at least pick somewhere fit for human beings."

"It wasn't a holiday," muttered Rachel.

Santana seemed to sense she'd gone too far; she sighed, and threaded an arm through Rachel's. "Sorry. I know, I know; I'm a major bitch sometimes."

"Most of the time." But Rachel pressed into Santana's side briefly, letting her friend know that her apology was accepted. "Thanks for coming to meet me."

"You texted me your flight details. That was a hint if I ever saw one." Santana tugged on her arm. "Ready to go? The paparazzi are getting anxious." She jerked her chin at the small group from earlier who were clearly watching them.

Rachel groaned. "How did they even find out I would be here?" she asked as she followed Santana to the parking lot.

"I've no clue, I'm not the Broadway sensation." Santana steered Rachel in front of her, slipping her arm out to grip Rachel's shoulder; the simple, protective gesture – clearly done without a second thought – made Rachel smile.

"Santana?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you for everything you've ever done for me," she said. "Prom Queen, Brody, Cassie July, _everything_. God, you've been such a good friend to me and how did I repay you? I slapped you because I freaked out and accused you of attempting to steal my part."

Santana's lip twitched. "Yeah, you're pretty good at the whole dramatic diva storm-out."

" _Santana._ "

"Sorry."

"No, I… I've been such a self-centred bitch. I'm sorry."

Santana waited until they were safely in the car before staring at Rachel incredulously. "Seriously, Rachel. Did something happen? Not that I don't like hearing all this stuff – because it's true – but I'm a little worried now. Are you okay?"

Rachel sniffed, tears springing to her eyes. "You have no idea. Oh god – there was this guy, and he made it so that I was living all these alternate lives, and you and I were together in one of them, and it occurred to me that I've never actually appreciated how important you've been to me – you _are_ to me this entire time."

"Rachel, calm down," said Santana, alarmed now. "You're not making any sense. Alternate lives? You and _me_? Together? For real?"

"We were married, actually," said Rachel, smiling a little when Santana blanched.

"Well, shit. Was it weed? You shouldn't be smoking stuff without making sure it's clean. That's how you get bad trips, and those are _not_ pleasant. Take it from Auntie Snix and the shady-as-fuck dealers who sell their shit in the Walmart parking lot."

Rachel wavered. It had happened; she was blessed with an overactive imagination, but she certainly hadn't imagined the past three days. But yet, sitting in Santana's car, it was becoming increasingly difficult to believe that it had. "Maybe… I had a bit too much to drink," she said.

Santana snorted, putting the car into drive. "Yeah, you party animal. At least that sounds a lot more believable than _I hallucinated you and I were married._ " Santana slapped the car horn, sticking her hand out the window. "Suck on that, you asshole! That was _my_ lane."

"My god." She had totally forgotten how scary Santana can be behind the wheel of a car.

"It was his fault. Can't blame me."

Rachel reached over to switch on the radio to distract herself from the stomach-churning ride; when Air Supply's music filled the car, she barely restrained herself from smirking at Santana.

"What are you smirking at, Midget? Brittany likes to mess about with the stations when she rides with me." She jerked the steering wheel, taking a hard left; Rachel gripped the car seat, turning white. "Speaking of Britts, I almost forgot; she said to call her when you land. Here, take my phone, it's in my bag."

Rachel fished out the phone, smiling at the cute selfie of Santana and Brittany that was the wallpaper. "You guys are adorable," she said.

"We're hot. Different thing."

Rachel rolled her eyes and unlocked the phone, dialing Brittany's number. The call connected after a few rings.

"Sanny!"

"Santana's driving, Brittany. It's Rachel."

"Oh! Hi, Rachel! Did you have a good flight?"

"Yes, it was quite comfortable. How are you?"

"A little sore, actually. Santana and I were trying this new machine that came in the mail the other day, this Simian thingy and we – "

"Too much info, Britt," called Santana. "You wanted to tell Rachel about dinner?"

"Oh, yeah! We're making dinner for everyone at your house, as a welcome home party for you," chirped Brittany. "I wanted to make it a surprise, but Santana said that you'd probably freak out and call the cops or something if you saw people in your house."

"Thank you all so much," said Rachel around the giant lump in her throat. "Really – thank you."

Santana snickered. "Berry being at a loss for words is all the thanks I need. That doesn't happen every day." Towards the phone, she said: "We just got off the highway, baby, so we'll be there in twenty. Love you."

"Love you too. Bye ducky, bye Rachel."

Rachel grinned. "Ducky?"

"Keep talking," threatened Santana, "and I'll turn this car around and dump you back at the airport."

She allowed herself a last smirk – Santana was all bark and no bite when it came to her friends – but decided to leave off the teasing, focusing on the view outside. The sun was setting as they entered the city proper; it was much less impressive than the sunsets of Mustique, but Rachel found that she couldn't care less.

What was she going to do later? She felt that she should have learned something in over a century's worth of living, a century's worth of making mistakes and learning from them. But she didn't feel any wiser, or any more certain of herself; cold dread trickled down her spine.

She wished she'd had more of a plan than just 'getting back to New York and Quinn ASAP'. They'd made many missteps over the years, but Rachel knew this could make or break them.

Rachel was jolted from her thoughts when Santana screeched to a halt in a guest parking space. "We're here," she announced unnecessarily. "Come on."

Obediently, she fetched her bag from the backseat and trailed after Santana, who was typing furiously on her phone as she walked. The smell of cooking gradually filled the air the closer they got to her apartment.

A sudden thought struck her. "How did they – ?"

"You left a copy of your key with Kurt last year when you flew out to Chicago so he could keep an eye on your place," said Santana without missing a beat. "He said you didn't even bother getting it back from him."

"Oh, right."

The door wasn't locked. Rachel let herself in, dropping her bag in the hallway; Santana grunted and pushed past her, making a beeline for the couch. "Kurt? Blaine?" Rachel called.

"In here! Blaine, she's back!"

Kurt scurried out of the kitchen, beaming from ear to ear. He had on the 'Kiss the Cook' apron that Blaine bought Rachel last year as a gag gift, his face slightly flushed from cooking. Blaine followed closely behind him. "Rachel!"

"Kurt. Blaine," choked Rachel. She flung herself at them, doing her best not to cry into the men's immaculate shirt collars. "I've missed you so much. I'm so sorry."

"Oh my goodness, don't cry. You'll get me started, and I don't want my eyes all red and puffy," said Kurt, stroking her back. "We've missed you too, you silly girl." He gently detached her fingers from his shirt. "We'll talk more later, okay? Tonight's your night."

"I can help – "

"Certainly not," said Kurt firmly as Santana yelled "Fuck no!" from the living room. "We haven't been out of contact long enough to forget about your… _magic touch_ , in the kitchen. For the sake of everyone involved, you're staying out here while Blaine and I finish up."

The door opened, and Brittany came in. "Hi, Rachel!" she said brightly, sweeping Rachel up in a massive hug.

She was already emotionally fragile from everything she had gone through, and especially from the warm welcomes she'd received from friends that she only remembered being nasty or downright dismissive to. Brittany's enthusiastic hug was Rachel's breaking point, and she promptly burst into noisy tears, burying her face in Brittany's neck.

"Rachel? Are you okay?"

"I'm not okay!" Rachel exclaimed. "I've been a massive bitch to all of you, and yet you're being so nice!"

("She finally caught on," muttered Santana. Kurt elbowed her.)

Brittany gently pried Rachel's arms from around her. "We're your friends, silly," she said, "that's what friends do."

"Friends put up with your stupid diva shit in high school and come back for more diva-tude."

("Your input is neither welcome nor appreciated, Santana.")

"Rachel, why don't you go freshen up?" suggested Blaine, cutting in smoothly. He helped pry Rachel's arms from around Brittany's neck, leading Rachel to her bedroom. "The food'll be ready in a while; you look like you haven't had a proper meal in days."

"I have," insisted Rachel.

"Mmmhmmm."

"The Twiggy look is so 60s," Kurt's voice floated from the kitchen, earning himself a laugh from Santana.

"Okay," she said meekly. "Maybe I – okay."

He just smiled and squeezed her arm. "Take your time. We'll still be here when you're ready." Blaine shut the door behind him, leaving Rachel alone. Slowly, her eyes drifted around the familiar space.

Rachel had brought her focus board from home when she'd moved into NYADA's dorms, and it had stayed with her ever since. Slowly, the Broadway pictures and playbills had given way to other things as she grew and matured, and it now served as a photo collage. Quite a few of the photos showed her and Quinn; both with their friends, and just the two of them, documenting the events of their lives.

Her eye fell on the most recent one in the lower left corner, from two months ago. Shelby had brought Beth to New York to see _Wicked_ , and Rachel had jumped at the opportunity to ensure that Beth received the proper introduction to her life's passion, and Quinn got to spend quality time with her. Beth beamed from the centre of the photo, a pointed black hat sitting askew on her head, surrounded by Shelby, Rachel and Quinn.

That was before things had started to go wrong.

If she had been obnoxious and overbearing in high school, Rachel had been worse in recent weeks. She'd lost out on the leading role in the revival of _Bye Bye Birdie_ , and decided that the reason for it had been a loss of focus. Rachel remembered late nights in the studio and skipping meals, broken promises and half-hearted 'maybe later's.

Things had come to a head when she rushed to Quinn's apartment at two in the morning in a panic, after having completely forgotten their dinner plans. Quinn had waited up for her, a cold and forgotten meal for two on the table.

Rachel shook her head. She decided against taking a shower, instead washing her face and changing into sweatpants and an old T-shirt before joining her friends.

"Perfect timing," said Kurt, walking to the table with a large pot in his hands, "I was just about to come get you. Dinner's ready."

Santana was already attacking the food with gusto, helping herself to pasta and garlic bread. "Oh god," muttered Kurt, and hurried forward. "Santana, there's plenty to go around, there's no need to grab everything like it's Breadstix's all-you-can-eat buffet."

She flipped him off with the pasta tongs. Blaine rolled his eyes, and snagged a mozzarella stick off Santana's plate while she wasn't looking, offering his prize to Kurt. Amidst the scuffle that had broken out once Santana spotted the theft (Brittany taking full advantage of the chaos to steal from all their plates), Rachel couldn't help but smile at her insane friends.

"Rachel, help!" screeched Kurt. "Not the hair – oh no you didn't. You _bitch_."

"That's what you gets for coming in between me and my carbs."

"Oh my god, Santana Lopez, you're an adult now; you shouldn't be talking like a Lima Heights crackhead."

She pointed her fork at him. "And you have a kid now, Hummel; you shouldn't be fighting with me over my pasta, especially if you know you're gonna lose. I lived with you for three years, I know all your secrets."

Kurt turned to Brittany. "Muzzle your bitch, please."

"That's for later tonight," said Brittany very matter-of-factly. Santana cackled maniacally at the identical expressions of horror and disgust on Blaine and Kurt's faces.

* * *

The food fight was resolved with no lasting effects (apart from Kurt insisting they had ruined spaghetti for him for life). Rachel needed space away from all the warmth and love she didn't feel like she deserved, and vanished out onto the iron-grille fire escape, her beloved starving-artist-in-New York cliche (Quinn had mocked her mercilessly for it when she'd confessed it was the main reason for picking her post-divorce apartment).

Being here brought back memories, real and otherwise, jostling in her mind. She'd sat on one in Finn's lap talking about their dreams until sunrise. She'd told Quinn that her dream was to live in a place with one of those fire escapes from _Rent._ Santana used to love composing out on their fire escape.

The night view of her city had given her the courage to kiss _her_ Quinn (she was absolutely certain it was real, because few people had made her feel as _alive_ as kissing Quinn had).

"Knock, knock," said a familiar voice. "Can I come in? Or out, as it stands."

She laughed. "You're always welcome, Kurt."

"Never hurts to ask." He shimmied out the window and sat cross-legged beside her. "You disappeared on us."

"I needed some fresh air."

"In New York? Really?" Kurt said, wrinkling his nose. "Far be it for me to judge."

Rachel smiled. She was glad that he was here, honestly she was, but… she had too much on her mind right now to talk to him about everything they needed to clear the air about. "How's my goddaughter?"

It seemed that he sensed her thoughts, because Kurt accepted the change of subject easily enough. "She's a holy terror," he said with a roll of his eyes. "It's hard to believe she isn't biologically related to you, because that child has somehow learned how to pout when she doesn't get her way."

"She knows what she wants; that's a good thing."

Kurt took her hand and squeezed. "Santana said you were acting strange, talking about wishes and alternate timelines."

Heat rose to her cheeks. "Oh… no, that wasn't actually… I must have drunk a bit too much," lied Rachel.

Kurt side-eyed her. "I'm not going to judge you for anything, because goodness knows there's been plenty of that. All I'm saying is that whatever it was, it changed you." His thumb stroked the inside of her wrist. "You're so different now."

She can't help but ask. "Different? How?"

"Tired," he said promptly. "Santana, showing an incredible amount of restraint, chose not to comment on it."

"She _did_ comment on it."

"Much," amended Kurt. "She's worried. We all are."

"I'm fine." Rachel smiled at him. "I'll be fine. I don't want to talk about it right now, but I will, eventually. I promise."

"Alright." He kissed her temple. "Get some rest and I'll see you soon."

* * *

Her friends had told her to get a good night's rest. Rachel had other plans – and so had Santana.

("Quinn's home alone tonight," muttered Santana into her ear as she was hugging Rachel goodbye.

"What?"

"You know what I mean. Don't screw this up again, Berry.")

Twenty minutes after they'd left her in her apartment, Rachel found herself outside a red brick apartment block, trying vainly to re-summon the courage that brought her here, and go in. She'd been on the same second stair for the eleventh time running, and it was a good thing that she was so familiar with her elliptical, because it was getting pathetic.

Rachel sighed. Her hand rested on the banister, still warm from the sun. When she attempted to make the third step, her knees gave out on her; Rachel flopped on the stoop, hugging her legs to herself.

She was an idiot. She hadn't the courage to go in, and she didn't want to be a coward and leave now. So it seemed like she was going to be stuck outside all night, unless a miracle happened.

"Rachel?"

Rachel's head snapped up; she lurched to her feet and came face to face with Quinn Fabray.

She could see countless emotions play over Quinn's face – surprise, hurt, anger – before her expression became blank.

"What are you doing here?"

Rachel licked suddenly-dry lips. "I, um, came to see you."

"Ah." Quinn shook her head. "I don't have time for this. I made it quite clear that we were done – that's what happens when someone walks out, right?"

"I'm sorry." Rachel took a step forward; she froze when Quinn stepped back. "I was overreacting. You were right. I shouldn't have – I was being stupid."

"I can't keep doing this," whispered Quinn, almost to herself, and cleared her throat. "I'm tired, Rachel. I don't want to talk."

"I'm sorry," repeated Rachel. She could already feel tears brimming in her eyes. "I – you know what, you're right. This was a bad idea. I'll go. Have a good night, Quinn." She moved past Quinn and started down the sidewalk.

"Rachel."

Rachel stopped.

"You don't have to go."

"And you don't have to talk to me, if you don't want to," said Rachel, pivoting on her heel to look at Quinn.

"I'm not… it's not like that." She put down her bag, crossing her arms. "You caught me off-guard. I'm sorry. Look… I wasn't expecting to see you, and you just – I'm not in the best frame of mind right now, and I'm still mad at you, but I don't want you to go."

"... Okay." Rachel couldn't help but shake her head. "Quinn, I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable. This was a stupid idea from the beginning, and I shouldn't have come."

Quinn didn't reply immediately. She climbed the short flight of stairs, pulling out her keys as she went. Rachel watched as she unlocked the front grille.

"You can come up."

"You're sure…?"

"If I wasn't sure, I would have told you by now, Rachel," she said with a touch of exasperation. "It's freezing outside. Come up."

Meekly, she followed Quinn into the lobby and up the stairs. Quinn lived on the third floor, and the short climb was calming, filled with the sound of their footsteps echoing in the stairwell. By the time they'd reached Quinn's flat, Rachel hung back, her eyes silently reminding Quinn that she had the option of backing out at the last minute.

Quinn was having none of it. She unlocked the door and simply waited until Rachel stepped into the house, before shutting the door firmly behind them.

"I'm getting a glass of water. Do you want one?"

"Yes, please." Rachel sat on the couch, taking in the familiar surroundings. Quinn was supposed to be in the city on a temporary attachment – something about corporate partnerships, she'd never been able to remember all the details – and so her rented apartment lacked personality. There were splashes of it in the framed photographs and the assorted knick knacks that she'd brought with her, but that was it.

(A few of the things Rachel remembered, like the hideous lamp they'd been forced to buy at a flea market because Quinn accidentally broke the cord, were gone. Rachel felt her heart break a little.)

Quinn reemerged from the kitchen with two glasses of water, setting one in front of Rachel, who thanked her; much to her disappointment, Quinn took the farthest end of the couch from her.

The awkward silence that filled the atmosphere made Rachel feel like she was choking. She refused to unburden everything she'd carried with her from Mustique on Quinn, the guilt from earlier eating at her. It was Quinn's decision to let her in, and it would be up to Quinn to decide if she would be given a chance to talk.

But at the very least, she could make small talk.

"I don't remember that," said Rachel suddenly, pointing at the heavy book on the coffee table.

"Oh. Yeah. Jon gave it to me the other day." Her colleague was in charge of the division that published photobooks, and was in the habit of giving away print test copies to random people. "It's a collection of city photography."

"That sounds nice."

"Mmhm." She saw Quinn's eyes drift to her purse, and then to an unspecified point behind her.

"You can check your phone," blurted Rachel, "I don't mind."

Quinn stared at her. "That's bad manners."

"It didn't stop me." She cringed, thinking of the many meals and dates she'd interrupted for important phone calls from her agent, event rescheduling notifications from Carla, social media post drafts she needed to vet before they went up.

From the expression on Quinn's face, Rachel was certain she was thinking about the same thing.

"I'm sorry for the way I've treated you," said Rachel.

"Yes, your voicemail expressed that quite well."

Her gaze flicked up to Quinn's face. "You listened to it?"

"You thought I wouldn't?"

"Honestly? Yes," confessed Rachel. "I behaved deplorably to you – to us. I threw a screaming fit and said horrible things to you. I walked out and boarded the first plane I could find. Frankly, Quinn, I wouldn't have blamed you if you'd chosen to cut me out of your life permanently after all that. And now..." She trailed off, hand upraised vaguely.

Quinn didn't say anything, smoothing down the edge of her sweater. Rachel dropped her gaze, and stared unblinkingly at her lap.

Muffled ringing interrupted them. "That's _your_ phone," said Quinn.

"Oh." Rachel fished it out of her purse, glancing at the screen – Hugh was calling, and she could see a few other texts and emails from various members of her staff. She shut off the phone and tucked it back into her bag. "There."

When she looked back up, Quinn was staring at her bemusedly. "You didn't pick up."

Rachel shrugged. "I'm busy right now."

"You were the one who went on about the importance of being available at all times, and that opportunities came when least expected," said Quinn, sounding much less amused. "And you called me the workaholic when I brought back manuscripts from the office."

"I don't care about that now." Not entirely, if she was being honest with herself. Rachel was doing her best to stop the squirming anxiety in her stomach. She quashed it, smiling warmly at Quinn. "I admit that I'm feeling rather anxious and obliged to reply to all those notifications and emails, but it's rude to do that while I'm here with my… _you_." She was about to say _my girlfriend_ , but caught herself at the last minute.

Quinn noticed. Her expression hardened a fraction, and then went blank. "I see. You've changed a lot over a short time. Did something happen?"

She shrugged. It was not a topic she had wanted to bring up this quickly. "Quite a lot," said Rachel vaguely, "but mostly, I've had the time to reflect on myself. There was a lot I'm not proud of."

"Like?"

"The way I've treated my friends." She sipped her water. "I've been behaving like I did in sophomore year of high school, except worse."

"Good that you know now," shot Quinn, her tone venomous.

Rachel winced. "Yes… and I was forced to take a step back, reevaluate my priorities in life. I'm not the insecure girl who needed applause to live anymore. I'm also not the obnoxious diva whom everybody loved to hate anymore, Quinn. My life doesn't revolve around singing. I have friends. I have..." She trailed off again.

_God, this uncertainty will be the death of me._

"You still need applause to live."

Rachel was about to bite her tongue, _hard_ , when she caught the small upturn of Quinn's lips, and the almost-shy glance thrown her way. Her hurt melted away instantly. "Well. I can't argue with that, because it _is_ true. However," she continued, "it's taking a backseat in my life right now."

"I can practically hear you thinking, Rachel. There's something you're not telling me."

She huffed. "I don't know why everyone says that. I'm supposed to be an award-winning actress; this doesn't say much about my acting skills," said Rachel, hoping to deflect the conversation from her thoughts.

"You're a good actress because you're very professional and clear about what your character is supposed to be thinking and feeling, but as a person, you've had your heart on your sleeve and in your eyes since high school," said Quinn quietly.

"You noticed?"

"You're pretty hard to ignore." And now it was Quinn's turn to look away.

Rachel didn't know how to respond. Certainly, this was a huge improvement over the taciturn Quinn she knew in high school that never dealt with her issues up-front, but she didn't like how Quinn seemed like she was doing this against her will.

What bothered her the most was that she had no clue how to convince Quinn otherwise.

She thought about the people she had met; the various iterations of people she knew and loved, and the great loves of each 'life'. She had loved them all, as much as she was able, given the dream-like nature of each existence. They had all been unique and yet, the same. And they all had cared about her.

Did she still feel guilty for the things she had done? That went without saying. She had made more than her fair share of mistakes, for reasons ranging from circumstances beyond her control, to her own selfishness. She'd broken hearts and crushed dreams, and her apologies had seemed woefully inadequate even to herself.

Had she learned anything from the experience? This was a harder question to answer. Arbitrarily, yes; some things were meant to happen, like Quinn leaving Lima. Some things were less certain, like whether Finn found his place in life (or rather whether he was given his chance to do so). But Rachel hoped she'd grown as a person.

If she was being entirely honest with herself, she wasn't sure what had changed, apart from the mental exhaustion. For the most part, it felt like she'd just been carried along with events as they happened, rather than actively making the changes in her life.

She'd gone to NYADA and ended up on Broadway each time. She'd become successful, to varying degrees. Nothing had changed, apart from the person in her bed. Had she really made the most of living three different lifetimes?

"Rachel?"

She looked up into concerned hazel eyes. "Yes?"

"I asked you a question, and you didn't answer. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, thank you for asking. I was a little preoccupied with my thoughts; I'm sorry I didn't hear you talking to me. Would you mind repeating your question? I promise I will be more attentive from now on."

"No, forget it. It wasn't important."

"When you say something isn't important, it probably is."

Quinn scowled. "Just because you've known me for a decade doesn't mean I'm an open book, Rachel."

Rachel said nothing, simply looking at her.

"... why Mustique?"

"Mustique?"

"You could have gone anywhere in the world, but you chose a _private island_ ; the farthest humanly possible from me, I'm guessing. A nice beach holiday while you were at it." Quinn's voice was more hurt than venomous at this point.

"Quinn, no. It wasn't a conscious decision." She took a deep breath. "After I… _left_ , I couldn't go home… I ended up in the airport, and spent the night sitting in the lounge and watching the departure board, trying to work up the courage to apologise." Her mouth tightened. "As you know, I didn't. I ran. I boarded that plane, and I've hated myself for it ever since."

"I was a mess. I'm still a mess. I'm aware that being the spoilt only child has contributed significantly towards my character, but it would be ridiculous of me to blame them for all my deficiencies. I've treated our friends horribly. I've taken Jesse for granted." Rachel's voice caught in her throat. "And I've done worse to you, in both capacities."

"Rachel..."

"Let me finish. I think this is long overdue." She took a deep breath, quietly grateful for her superior breath control. "I'm spoilt, and selfish; the night I boarded that plane was my lowest point. I was too blind to see reason, and I accused you of sabotaging my career, and I... said quite a few other things I don't care to repeat, but needless to say, they were all untrue and deliberately hurtful."

Quinn's face had shifted back into its expressionless mask by this point, and she merely nodded in response.

"You told me I was out of line, and that we were over. I stormed out."

"Rachel."

"I left you that voicemail because I wanted a chance to apologize in person," said Rachel. "I'm not asking for a second chance at what we had, or even at simply being your friend. I'm grateful you've given me this much, with agreeing to stay, even making an effort to be civil." She leaned back in her seat, biting on her lower lip.

Quinn set her glass down. Even though they were sitting side-by-side on the couch, there was at least a foot of space separating their bodies; to Rachel, it felt like an unbridgeable chasm. "So. You came to apologise for your behaviour that night."

"And quite a bit before that."

"I gathered. I don't mean to sound cold, Rachel, but… what are you hoping for, from this?"

 _You_ , she said to herself. "Forgiveness, ideally. Closure. Part of my making amends." Rachel took another deep breath. "I've cut back on my work. I told Hugh I won't be taking on anymore new projects for the foreseeable future – apart from the two I've already signed on for."

"Why?"

"I need a break." She tucked her hands in her lap. "I was thinking of leaving the city for a while – Lima, maybe, or even Columbus. Somewhere smaller." She neglected to say that was what Quinn (and all their friends) had been telling her to do for a while now, and how she had stubbornly refused to listen to them. She didn't need to; the hardness in Quinn's eyes said it all.

"... What changed your mind?"

"... A lot of things. Quinn, you're right. There's something else I didn't tell you earlier. About Mustique."

"And?"

"I met someone." She cringed when Quinn flinched. "Okay, it's not what it sounds like. But this strange man approached me, and he offered me – Quinn, I know whatever I'm going to tell you from now on is going to sound ridiculous, but I need you to listen first. You can say anything you like later."

She was certain she'd sounded a little hysterical towards the end of her speech, because the concerned look in Quinn's eyes was making her choke up, damn it. While she had so sorely missed Quinn, now wasn't the time for her to be focused on that. "He gave me three wishes, and the first thing I wished for was that… you'd never had that accident."

Rachel felt, rather than heard, Quinn's sharp intake of breath. "Rachel."

"No matter what, I still felt guilty about it," she rushed out. "I still do. And I don't know what happened, but – I was back in that courthouse in Lima. In my wedding dress. With Finn."

Quinn was frowning so hard, Rachel was momentarily tempted to reach out and smooth away the deep furrows in her forehead. "You… went back in time?"

"Not quite. It was like… an alternate timeline? I was still me, but I'd gone back to that time." Rachel gave her a small smile. "You're taking this a lot better than I thought."

"I'm choosing to suspend my disbelief until you're done with your story," said Quinn, who nevertheless was staring at her as though she'd grown an extra head. "So, you found yourself in an alternate timeline. Where I wasn't in that car crash."

"Yes. You arrived safely at the courthouse not long after."

"What did you do?"

Rachel felt her cheeks go hot. "I married Finn."

Quinn didn't respond.

"I married him, and we moved to New York so I could attend NYADA and he found work. He didn't have that accident, and we… we were happy. For a while." Her voice was quivering; Rachel paused to steady herself. "After some time he couldn't stand New York, and I chose to follow him back to Lima."

Quinn's lip curled, but she nodded for Rachel to continue.

"I ended up teaching at McKinley – actually, Finn and I did. You were supremely disappointed in me."

"I can imagine. Wait, me? Where was I in this?"

"You went to Yale, of course. I made use of those Metro passes – " here Rachel avoided meeting Quinn's eyes "– and you got engaged to Noah while in college. Both of you moved back to Lima later, when you had your kids – apart from Beth. I wasn't happy. I wanted to go back, but then I got pregnant."

" _You_ got pregnant." There was a strange expression on Quinn's face. "It wasn't…?"

"No; I'd never even met Brody in that world. We stayed in Lima to raise our daughter – we named her Eleanor. You had a daughter, Amanda, and a son, Jordan."

"At least those names are better than Drizzle."

Rachel gave a short laugh. "Finn, being the romantic, wonderful idiot that he was, moved us all back to New York because I wasn't happy. It didn't work out – _again_ – but this time we couldn't resolve it, and he went back to Lima alone. We got divorced a few years later, so did you and Noah." Rachel deliberately left out the rest of the story.

Quinn nodded slowly. "Wow. That sounded intense. And then, what happened?"

"I died," said Rachel. "Old age. I woke up back in reality with that loathsome man telling me I had another two wishes to go." She reached for her water. "For my second wish, I… I wished for you."

"... What?"

"I love Finn," she said firmly. "A part of me will always love him. I was glad that we'd been given a chance to see our lives together, but – you can call me selfish – he wasn't my Finn, and I wasn't his Rachel. My Finn is gone, and he's never coming back." Rachel glanced at their hands, an eternity apart, and looked away. "But I knew what could happen now, and how I was being given the opportunity to make decisions without dealing with their consequences, so… I wished for you."

"And?"

Rachel laughed bitterly. "I had you. We were married, but you were in that wheelchair permanently."

Quinn blanched.

"That was… it was the hardest lifetime for me." Even talking about it brought a solid lump to Rachel's throat. "You died."

"Everyone dies, Rachel."

"No, Quinn. You committed suicide."

Quinn's mouth fell open.

The tears were coming thick and fast now. Rachel started talking faster in an attempt to get everything out before she lost her nerve. "You were so brave and strong, but you were sick; there were complications from the accident, and they weren't getting any better. You got depressed and I didn't notice, not until it was too late, and I…."

"Rachel," said Quinn, "Rachel, calm down. It's okay. It wasn't real. It didn't happen." She was closing the gap between them, pulling Rachel into her arms. Rachel was aware of all this, vaguely; she was busy keeping her sobbing in check. "I'm okay."

"I know _you_ are," she gasped through her tears, reaching out to cling to Quinn. "But it was so real, and it happened. I was the one who found you," she said, and felt Quinn grip her shoulders tighter. "I blamed myself." Rachel laughed shakily, and attempted to mop at her face. "God, it wasn't even _real_. I don't understand why I'm so upset about this."

"Whatever it was, you're upset, Rachel; that matters to me."

Rachel could only nod. Her mouth opened and closed as she struggled to rein in her emotions. Quinn waited until Rachel's breathing had evened before pulling away; immediately, Rachel missed her warmth.

"Thank you for… I'm okay now," said Rachel, forcing a smile. "I… you didn't have to."

Quinn didn't smile back – but she didn't move back to her original seat, either. If Rachel moved her fingers a fraction, she could easily connect their hands again – yet another unfathomable distance.

Momentarily, Rachel entertained the idea of relating the third lifetime to Quinn but decided against it. "Not just for that, but for tonight, really." She forced a smile. "It's late, and I really should be going. Thank you for letting me in."

"... you had a third wish."

"Eh?"

"That was two. You had one more left."

"Quinn, it's not important." Immediately she bit her lip at the hurt that flickered across Quinn's face. "I'm sorry. That came out ruder than intended."

Quinn waved it off. "You started telling this fantasy story, you might as well finish it… unless you're about to tell me you wished for something else, like all the leading roles Broadway had to offer for the next fifty years."

Rachel couldn't help herself. She laughed bitterly. "Unfortunately not. I'm known for my bull-headedness and not my smarts. I ended up in a world where you had never been born."

Quinn arched an eyebrow.

"To be perfectly honest, I didn't understand it myself," said Rachel, going a little pink under the other woman's scrutiny. "I thought it was in the way I phrased my wishes, but they had always been twisted into something I never intended…"

"What did you wish for?"

"I wished that I would get it right this time around." She kept her eyes trained on the sofa cushion as she spoke.

"I see."

"Quinn, please don't read too much into this. This is why I didn't want to tell you initially. I know I overthink things a lot, but you are one of the best things that have ever happened to me, and I would never knowingly wish for a world in which you didn't exist." Rachel inched forward, waited, repeated the entire process when Quinn didn't move. She ended up alarmingly close, just a hair away from touching the other woman. "Quinn?"

"What was it like?" she asked abruptly.

"Quinn, I don't think…"

"What was the same? Of course B – she didn't exist, but… what else changed?" Quinn's hazel eyes bored into hers.

"Nothing much. I went to NYADA after McKinley, and then Broadway. Quinn, you're scaring me. Why is that so important to you?"

Her mouth twisted. "... When I was pregnant, I had plenty of low moments. The lowest was just after I'd moved in with Mercedes." Quinn looked away. "I remember that I hadn't stopped crying for three hours, and I wished… I thought the world would be better off if I hadn't been born, then I wouldn't have hurt so many people." There was more she wasn't saying, Rachel could tell, and she didn't know whether to be upset or relieved.

Her heart broke. "Quinn, sweetheart." Rachel didn't care that she and Quinn weren't officially anything, or that Quinn was still technically mad at her; her hands moved to cup Quinn's cheeks. "You are loved," she asserted, guiding Quinn's face towards her. "I wish you hadn't felt that way, but you've come so far now… I truly hope you know now that all of what you were thinking wasn't true."

Quinn didn't say anything. Her eyes stayed closed, hands clenched in her lap.

Rachel understood. She knew what it cost Quinn to talk about something that she normally only acknowledged once a year. She hoped that she was conveying all the support Quinn needed through her touch alone.

Quinn rarely let her walls down – even around Rachel, who had known her for years. It was rarer still that Quinn allowed someone in when she was emotionally vulnerable, much less allow herself to be comforted.

"You made the right decision," whispered Rachel.

Slowly, Quinn's trembling hands moved to hold Rachel's in place.

Rachel found herself at a rare loss for words.

"I went to your apartment later that night," said Quinn, "but you didn't open the door. I thought you were just ignoring me. I didn't know you weren't even there; Santana called me later when she saw the Instagram post."

Fresh tears ran down Rachel's cheeks.

"It was stupid, but – I thought you'd still be there. I was upset, yes – but it wasn't because of the things you'd said. God, I… we've done so much to each other, and I'd said worse to you over the years. But the thought of you finally, _finally_ giving up on me, it… it hurt. I was scared. I thought you were gone for good."

"No – I'm so sorry, I never meant…"

"I'd pushed you. I'd done terrible things to you, and it was never too much. No matter what I did to you, you'd always be there with that damned look on your face like you _understood_ , and it was okay. That you _forgave_ me."

"I am never leaving you again. I promise." The words slipped out before she could stop them – she bit her lip, but Quinn seemed not to notice. Rachel's thumbs stroked Quinn's face, trembling slightly.

Quinn finally lifted her gaze to Rachel's. In her hazel eyes, Rachel saw everything: every hope, every emotion she'd poured into Quinn over the years, reflected back at her with just as much tenderness.

She wasn't much of a talker, but Rachel knew that Quinn Fabray was capable of saying just as much as her when it came to the things that truly mattered.

And Rachel understood that she had been saying the wrong three words all night.

"I love you."

Quinn's sharp intake of breath caused her shoulders to hitch.

She opened her mouth to say more, but realised it was unnecessary. Instead, Rachel continued to trace soft lines on Quinn's face with her thumbs, hoping her touch could convey the multitudes of words that normally spewed from her mouth.

Quinn's eyes had fluttered shut. "Don't make promises you can't keep," she said eventually, voice raw. "God, I don't think I could…"

"I think I've always loved you even before I knew it," said Rachel carefully. "I've loved you before you loved yourself, and even more now that you do."

"Rachel."

"Quinn… it's taken us years to get this point where we can be honest about our feelings." Rachel took a steadying breath. "Someone very wise told me that it was okay to want, and to let myself want. For so long I was afraid to want you, and a part of me always believed you'd leave the instant I stopped holding on to you."

Tears welled up in Quinn's eyes.

"I married Jesse because I told myself that the only other person in the world who would ever love me was dead," said Rachel flatly. "But I was wrong." Her brown eyes searched Quinn's face, heart pounding as she waited for a response.

"You were wrong," repeated Quinn firmly, turning her head to place a kiss on Rachel's palm. "I can't believe you would ever think no one could love you – that you thought _I_ could never love you."

"I could say the same for you."

Quinn smiled; Rachel felt it, rather than saw it.

She said nothing more, relishing the comfortable silence that wrapped around them like an old blanket. Rachel had missed this feeling.

Quinn's expression was, as usual, unreadable. But Rachel liked to think she had known her long enough to spot little telltale signs of the emotions she was trying not to show.

"We're okay," said Quinn, ever-so-slowly pulling away from Rachel, catching her hand with both of hers and giving it a quick squeeze.

"What?"

"I won't pretend that I'm over the things you said…" Rachel flinched, and Quinn continued: "But I'm tired of lying to myself. I'm tired of telling myself not to want one of the best things that's ever happened to me."

Rachel let out the breath she'd been holding.

"But, Rachel… I can't do all of this again."

"I know." Quinn's heart was rarely given and easily shattered; Rachel could feel its gentle weight settle back into her hands.

Quinn studied her. "There's something you're not saying."

"Are you sure? I'm exhilarated, but so terrified," admitted Rachel. "And if I'm terrified, I can't imagine what you're feeling right now."

"I'm so scared." Quinn tangled her fingers with Rachel's. "But I'm more scared of a life without you."

Before she could stop herself, Rachel traced Quinn's cheek with the side of her hand. A shaky breath escaped her lips when Quinn leaned into the touch. "I don't want to hurt you again," murmured Rachel, closing her eyes.

"Then don't."

It was as simple as that, she knew, and that was all it needed to be; just because they were so complicated as individuals didn't mean they couldn't be simple, together. She pressed a gentle kiss to Quinn's temple, her heart swelling at the simple gesture in a way it hadn't in what felt like a long, long time.

"I won't," said Rachel, and meant it.

There was so much they needed to talk about, but… it could wait. They had time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is officially complete, save for the bonus content from the second night (the contents of Quinn's envelope).


	6. Bonus: The Envelope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The contents of the envelope Santana found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not an additional chapter. This is an addendum to The Second Night, and doesn't make sense out of context.
> 
> Notes on the appearance of the text are in bold.
> 
> Author's notes for this chapter can be found on my Tumblr [here](http://yumi-michiyo.tumblr.com/post/162862211666/for-you-id-burn-the-length-and-breadth-of-sky).

**[The envelope has 'Rachel' written on it in careful block letters. Inside is a sheaf of loose leaf notebook paper.]**

**[First page]**

Rachel,

The truth is: I never intended on falling in love with you. It was never supposed to be you, or Finn, or anyone; I was supposed to grow, wither, and die in Lima. Then I woke up in that bed and thought, _well looks like I’m withering a little earlier_.

Then you came into my ward and started talking. You have never learned to take no for an answer, and you have never learned to hold your tongue, and I remember thinking: “How dare you come in here and take my mistakes for your own”.

I’m glad you did.

I want you to know one thing: I have never blamed you for the accident. I was angry, yes, in the sense of ‘why did I reply the text when I was driving’ because I was good at ignoring you. I’d done it for years before. But it happened, and the accident happened, and then we happened (I'm glad the bad things _didn't_ come in threes).

Right now, I’m writing this as you sit on our bed. You’ve got your hair in a messy bun, which means you’re so sick of keeping your hair long, but you’re not brave enough to cut it. You have your ratty old Wicked sweatshirt on, because it’s been a long day of singing and dancing in that skimpy costume and you’re dying for something to lounge in. It’s been years since you got comfortable enough to wear that around me, and I still haven’t stopped teasing you for still being able to wear something you bought at fourteen. You’re smiling at me, asking me what I’m writing with my serious face on, but I know that if I tell you that it’s nothing you’ll put on that ridiculous pout of yours that you think makes you irresistible, but actually I give in because of that little victory grin you’ll have when you get your way.

I’ll tell you it’s notes for my work. It is, in a way.

Do you know when I first started falling in love with you? It was when the doctors told me I should consider not going to Yale because I would have a hard time balancing life in the chair with my studies, and you just glared at them like you wanted to tear out their organs with your bare hands. It’s not very funny – you don’t even like bandaging up my papercuts because of the blood – but it reminded me that you have always been this fierce little fighter, full of contradictions. And when you set your fierce little fighter’s gaze on me and declared you found something in me to be proud of –

– do you know what you do to me, Rachel?

I never told you this, but I wrote my first story when I was eleven. It was about a girl who woke up with magic powers, and she saved the world. My dad tore it up, saying it wasn’t good to be led astray by witchcraft at my age.

I wrote my second story when I was seventeen and applying to Yale. The girl in it had no powers, and she didn’t save the world; she changed it, one fragment at a time, because she knew herself and what she could do. All of this I learned from you.

**[The sentence “You gave me something to write about” is written and crossed out multiple times.]**

To this day, I think the most surprising thing about myself is not that I’m gay, but that I married you. As a writer, I’m familiar with all the cliches about hate becoming love, and high school bully turned lover, but I have never hated you.

I have always hated myself.

I lied that day; I told you I see a cripple in the mirror, but the truth is that I see Lucy Fabray, and that is far worse. Lucy gets picked last in sports, she does things she knows she shouldn’t and hates herself more for it. Lucy doesn’t deserve to be loved. Do you remember that terrible gardener-and-flower analogy we saw on that TV show that we couldn’t stop laughing about? I secretly think it’s rather fitting. Sometimes when you look at me, you see more than me; and occasionally you even see Lucy. You are the sun, Rachel; you make me strong. You are the gardener, and you prune the thorns and weeds of Lucy from me. You are the soil, and you nourish me.

Or putting the gardener metaphor aside altogether; you are the wildflower that persists in cracks. You bloom, undaunted, and are all the more beautiful for your incongruity.

**[Scribbled-out sentences; only the words “maybe” and “happy” are legible.]**

**[Rest of the page is blank.]**

* * *

 

**[New page]**

Have you ever felt weird – like, you don't belong here?

I woke up this morning feeling strange. Peculiar. Almost dislocated from myself. I had such peculiar thoughts, too.

I would normally get out of bed, wash up, get dressed, then go see what my beautiful wife’s left me for breakfast. Right? But today my body decided not to cooperate.

I lay there. I knew I had things to do, but I didn't do them. My hands lay at my sides. My legs (as always) didn't move. I tried to get angry at myself. _Move, you lazy thing! The rest of you is still functioning, no reason why_ you _can't._

Not can't, but won't.

Then I thought, _I wouldn't mind at all if I were to stop existing._

That was scary. I didn't want to kill myself, and I'm sorry I made you think that. I don't want to. But, in that moment… the thought of simply not existing, like I am. No sounds from outside, no light inside. Me and my breathing and my thoughts simply… not _being._

I didn't hate the idea.

It passed, like medicine taking effect, like the clouds drifting from the sun. I got up. I ate the waffles you left. I wrote the article I’ve had at the back of my mind for a few days.

It felt strange, but I know it happened. I'm writing it down so I don't ever forget it happened.

* * *

 

**[New page]**

Let’s talk about you. I know when I started falling for you; I don’t think I have ever stopped falling.  Maybe when you aren’t there to catch me.

My favourite smile of yours: when I do something you think is cute, and you think I’m not looking. You brighten, like the dawn, and your eyes drive the shadows away.

My favourite thing about you: when you’re giving your fullest concentration to something - usually a script. You’re fierce, you scrappy big little thing, and you don’t know what it is to not give your all 

My favourite kiss: when you forget that you have me. Then you remember, and you smile; you kiss me like you’re scared that I’m Eurydice, and then you kiss me again, my Orpheus, because your music brings me home.

My favourite sound: when you sing. I have loved your voice before I knew you, but when you sing, the world seems to stop and listen.

My favourite hug: when you hug me fiercely because you refuse to treat me like broken glass. You can see me when I falter, and you solidify my resolve.

My favourite words: Not “I love you” because you make me feel it, always, but when you say my name, when we are alone and you remind me that I AM. **[The word is written in caps and underlined multiple times.]**

My favourite laugh: when you find something stupid funny. The sound spills from you, sudden and unexpected; like water from a crystal spring.

My favourite memory of you: when you presented me with the gardenias. You stood there, in your navy dress, trying to smile despite the fact your heart was beating out of your chest (funny how you can stand on a stage in front of an audience without a tremor but you crumble for your audience of one), and how scared you were that I didn’t love you that way. Good thing we fixed that, didn’t we?

**[“I'm sorry” is written and then scratched out, hard enough to tear the paper. The rest of the page is blank. The next page begins in slightly sloppier handwriting.]**

My favourite day: I can't pick just one. I love any day when you decide to surprise me. You love your grand romantic gestures, and you make me love them too. I must confess that I'm not actually looking at them but at you, because your excitement sets my heart on fire.

My favourite song: when you share it with the world, because you remind me you are mine.

My favourite part of you: your eyes. They hold a universe.

My favourite thing to do for you: I kiss your nose when you're feeling insecure. I don't know if you've noticed.

Love, looking at you now makes me think of our second, third kisses. The first was a public spectacle that set my joy alight; the second a match to the slow burning in my belly. The third stoking a fire I knew you would keep burning for the rest of my days. Your love burns me, but I am reborn a creature of flame, radiant and leaping and bright.

* * *

**[New page]**

Days get harder. That queer feeling comes often now. I feel guilty for entertaining it sometimes, because nothing gets done, but then again, nothing much gets done otherwise.

It’s an unpleasant cycle. I start to hate what I've become. I hate myself for hating myself, because you love me, and there’s no way I can hate something you love, right? But I know there’s a reason I don't love myself, and the cycle starts anew.

At least I remember what love is because I love you.

I love YOU, Rachel Barbra Berry.  **[The word 'YOU' is written in careful block letters.]**

**[The rest of the page is filled with doodles of stars.]**

* * *

 

**[New page. The handwriting is loose and messy. Punctuation and capitalization added where necessary.]**

Everything is a struggle. Even opening my eyes feels like a struggle.

I'm tired. Not just exhausted like after physio or a long day out. Tired to the core of my being.

It won't stop.

You're tired too. You always push yourself but now you push for me too. Don't think I can't see you hide everything from me, I'm crippled not blind.

Rachel… I want everything to stop. I want to sleep.

**[“I'm so tired” is crossed out with a shaky line that misses the last word altogether.]**

* * *

**[New page]**

I'm so glad I still have my writing at least; thank god for technology. Even if I have to tap out the letters with these shaky fingers, even if I have to stop every now and then to cough up a lung, even if the words start to blur after an hour… I WRITE. I'M ALIVE. **[Words written in caps and underlined carefully.]**

I have two sets of notes; you’d be proud of my acting skills. While I have my real notes on top of the pad, I add words to this secret – notes? observations? – right under that beautiful nose of yours.

Maybe I should have been a filmmaker or photographer, then I could capture you better than just these words on a page that’ll you never read.

* * *

 

**[New page]**

I can't sleep. I can't stop thinking about what the doctor said. So it’s inevitable, then…

You won't be alone. You've got our friends, our family. They've taken care of us since the beginning. They’ll continue to take care of you after I'm gone.

* * *

**[Last page]**

**[The writing starts halfway through the page. The handwriting is barely legible, with marks where it looks like the pen has been dropped while writing.]**

Will you love again when I'm gone?

* * *

 

**[End of letter]**


End file.
